


Kingdom of Air

by lookninjas



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Also avalanches, But you know that thing where there's like frozen dead bodies on everest, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Originally Posted on LiveJournal, like that, non-graphic description of corpses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-17
Updated: 2007-10-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:39:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28594863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookninjas/pseuds/lookninjas
Summary: Torchwood Three is sent to the Himalayas to recover a mysterious artifact.  In the thin, cold air of the world's tallest mountains, aliens aren't the only danger.  But that's not to say that the mountains are the only danger either.
Relationships: Gwen Cooper/Rhys Williams, Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	1. Prologue (The Sound of Drums)

**Author's Note:**

> Original notes: "Just over two months ago, [livejournal user] hellenebright asked me if this was the end of one story, or the beginning of the next. She was right, of course; this needed to become its own story, and I'm very very thankful for her advice.
> 
> I also have to thank [livejournal user] seize for reading multiple drafts and providing excellent suggestions without a word of complaint, even as the story grew steadily longer and took up more and more of the time she could have spent writing her own story. People have been canonized for less.
> 
> Lastly, I would be remiss if I didn't mention the enormous influence that Jon Krakauer's Into Thin Air and David Breashears' High Exposure had on the writing of this story, not only for their descriptions of climbing in the Himalayas, but also for their insight into what makes people climb in the first place."
> 
> This, I think, was a Big Bang fic, inspired by a line in Dr. Who when Saxon said that he'd sent Torchwood to the Himalayas. It was written before Season Two, so a lot of things were later contradicted in canon. But I still like my version. (K2? Really? They helicoptered to K2? Not over it.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It begins, as so many stories do, with the ringing of a telephone.

**9 February 2008**

There is a red file folder on Ianto's tiny workstation behind the Tourist Office, neatly labelled "Captain Jack Harkness." It's not the same, not his Jack, but still.

He doesn't touch it.

It's been six days since the world (almost) ended, since Jack (nearly) died. It's been three days since Jack opened his eyes, stood up and walked out of the morgue, arms spread wide, offering a forgiveness that none of them really deserved, and a kiss for Ianto that seemed to promise so much.

It's been three days since Jack disappeared into thin air.

It would be easy to conclude that Jack is gone for good, that their last kiss was nothing more than a goodbye. But Ianto's made this mistake before, giving up on Jack too soon, and he's learned his lesson. He won't lose faith so easily this time.

Jack will be back, and until he is, Ianto's not going to touch that folder.

*

"I've got it! I've got the footage!" Tosh cries, and at that moment, as everyone is pushing their chairs back, getting to their feet, the telephone in Jack's office starts ringing.

The others glance nervously at each other, then at Ianto. He tries to smile. "I'll get that," he says, and hurries into Jack's office, determined not to panic.

Ianto's been answering Jack's phone since long before the Captain vanished; since his first month in Cardiff, actually. He has a gift for dealing with petty bureaucrats, a deferential politeness that he honed back at Torchwood One. Jack was eager to get out of as much admin as he possibly could, and Ianto was eager to please. It was a satisfactory arrangement for both of them.

But with Jack gone, there's the ever-present worry that someone in the government or UNIT will cotton on, start asking uncomfortable questions. Ianto's not entirely sure what would happen if word got about that Captain Jack had vanished, but he's got a few theories, and none of them are particularly nice. So they've got to keep the charade up as long as they possibly can.

Picking up the phone, Ianto feels rather like a guilty child. He swallows hard before speaking. "Torchwood Three; Ianto Jones speaking."

"Ianto Jones." The voice on the other end of the line is effortlessly friendly, almost familiar somehow. Ianto glances at the caller ID: _Ministry of Defence_. "I like that. Good, solid Welsh name. Is the Captain around, Ianto?"

Ianto takes a quiet, deep breath. "I'm afraid he's unavailable at present, Sir. If you'd like, I could leave a message for him?"

"No." There's a sort of hidden laughter in the voice, oddly reassuring. "That won't be necessary, Mr. Jones. I'll bother you another time. Thanks all the same." And before Ianto can even ask the man's name, the line is dead.

Before Ianto can work out why he's so strangely, intensely relieved, his thoughts are interrupted by an outburst from Owen. "What in God's name is he doing?" Owen leans closer to Tosh's monitor, chewing restlessly on the end of a pen. Neither of the girls can answer; Tosh sits, and Gwen leans over Tosh's chair, and they stare at the screen in bewildered shock.

After a moment's hesitation, Ianto joins them. Captured by the CCTV cameras, Jack runs across the Plass, hurls himself at something they cannot see, and then vanishes. Tosh hits a button and the footage reverses itself, restarts. Jack runs. He leaps. He's gone.

"Can you slow it down?" Ianto asks, his voice shaking only slightly, and Tosh does so, fingers clattering briefly on the keyboard. In slow-motion, Jack looks almost comical, mouth stretched wide as if shouting, coat billowing melodramatically. His arms spread wide as both feet leave the ground, and he hits some invisible something, fingers gripping tight. For just a moment, Ianto swears he catches a glimpse of whatever it is Jack's clutching, something blue, something almost painfully familiar, and then both it and Jack are gone.

"So," Owen says, finally. "Some invisible... thingie shows up, Jack throws himself at it, and then they're gone?"

"Could be a perception filter, like the invisible lift," Tosh says, pushing her glasses up, letting the scene creep by in slow motion again. There it is again, the barest flicker of blue underneath Jack's clutching hands. "We can't see it, but Jack obviously could."

"There was a funny sort of sound," Gwen says, and her voice is choked with tears. "Like an engine, maybe. Jack must have heard it, known what it was."

Ianto remembers the brown-haired man he met in the ruins of Canary Wharf, the one who gave him a photograph and asked him to remember a girl he never met. He pulls the picture from his inside jacket pocket, runs his fingers over it. The man. The girl. The blue police box. "I wonder," he says.

**11 February 2008**

Tosh has finally agreed to go home and get a few hours' sleep. Owen refuses to budge, although he's making a hash out of the paperwork he's trying to "help" with. Ianto brings him a cup of coffee, refrains from offering advice, even though he'll have to fix Owen's mistakes later on. Everyone's desperate to be useful; the least Ianto can do is let them try.

He goes to check on Gwen.

She's up in the conference room, staring at the photographs spread out upon the table. It took Tosh and Ianto hours to hack into Jack's files, and he'll probably never forgive them for the trespass, but at least they know who he's with, and why he left. The evidence covers every available surface in the conference room; pictures of a tall man with large ears that stick out, a young blonde girl, a man with rumpled brown hair, sad eyes and a manic grin. And another man, dressed in a military greatcoat; younger, more carefree, more roguish, perhaps, but unmistakably Jack Harkness.

Ianto sets a coffee down by Gwen's elbow and waits for her to acknowledge him. When she finally looks up, her eyes are red. "What if he doesn't come back? He said he was looking for the right kind of Doctor..."

 _The_ Doctor. Ianto picks one of the pictures up, looks at it. He can't help but feel just a little foolish. Torchwood exists because of the Doctor, for the Doctor, and he met the man twice and never knew it. "He'll come back, Gwen."

"But what if he doesn't?"

"He'll come back." He studies the picture for a little longer, then carefully sets it back down. "It's just that the Doctor needs him more right now; that's all."

Gwen shifts fractionally in her seat, leaning closer to him. Ianto knows he ought to tell her to go home. He ought to tell her to spend some time with Rhys, to hang on to her life with both hands before it gets stolen away from her. But he's not her Captain; he's not Jack, so he doesn't. "So we just get along without him?"

"We keep going," Ianto says, and lets his hand rest on her shoulder. "Keep the home fires burning. He'll be back."

She doesn't ask him how he can be so sure, and he's grateful for that. He can't explain it. But he knows Jack is coming home someday. He _knows_ it.

**28 April 2008**

Ianto sighs and checks the caller ID on Jack's phone. Ministry of Defence. Again.

"Torchwood Three, Ianto Jones speaking."

"Ianto!" That friendly, familiar voice. "Have you got a minute, or am I interrupting something?"

Ianto looks down at the work spread out over Jack's desk. Follow-up reports on the Rift activity since Abaddon. Gwen's research on Bilis Manger. Owen's latest attempt to find some sort of pattern to Weevil attacks. Requisition forms. Budget for the second quarter of the fiscal year. "Always time for you, Sir," he says. "How can I help?"

"You see, Ianto, this is why I like you. So polite. Anyway, I've got fantastic news. We've just finally gotten the authorization to re-open the London offices. About time, if you ask me. Now, I had a peek at your file, and I noticed that you started off at Torchwood One, so I thought perhaps you'd like to come back home? We need your experience, getting everything rebuilt, reorganized. It's a large task, I know, but I can't think of a better person for it. It'd mean a big promotion for you, of course. If you're interested."

"Ah." Ianto sinks back into Jack's chair, numb and a bit bemused, and looks about the Hub. It's dirtier than usual, more mess and clutter. With the Captain gone, Ianto's been needed in the field more and more often, as well as handling nearly all the admin, leaving no time left to tidy. The others are trying, harder than they ever have, but there just isn't enough time in the day to hold the Rift together, save the world from alien invasion, and bin all the crisp packets too.

Things were different in London. Eight hundred people working there, of course some of them were going to be cleaning staff. Everything was white and glass and chrome; everything gleamed. It was a different world entirely.

"Of course, if you wanted a day or so to think about it..." There's an edge of disappointment in the Minister's voice, as though Ianto ought to be leaping about with excitement. Perhaps he should be, but he can't, somehow.

He glances at the CCTV footage, constantly being fed to Jack's computer. Owen is hunched over the autopsy table, dissecting what is either a seed pod or a very strange sort of egg. Tosh's fingers fly over her keyboard as she works at her translation program. Gwen is on the phone, chatting with one of her police contacts. They've all looked so tired lately, worn thin by the effort of keeping Torchwood running without Jack. He wonders if they'd eat if he weren't around to feed them. He wonders if they'd go home to rest without him reminding them. He's not even sure that any of them know how to use the coffeemaker.

"Ianto?" The voice is gentle, almost worried, and Ianto feels a brief pang of guilt for what he's about to say, but he doesn't have any choice.

"Thank you for the offer, Sir, but I simply can't leave Cardiff right now. I'm needed here."

"I see." There's a slight edge to the Minister's voice, disappointment and something more, and for a moment, Ianto feels a slight pulse of fear, like he's just made a very dangerous enemy. But it passes almost immediately, and he feels silly for ever thinking it. "Well, I hope Captain Harkness appreciates you, Ianto. Your sort of loyalty is hard to find."

"Thank you, Sir," Ianto says, at a loss for any other way to reply.

"If you change your mind, you know where to find me."

"Of course, Sir. I'll... keep in touch. And thank you for thinking of me; it was kind of you."

An amused chuckle drifts down the line. "Yes, I suppose it was. Goodbye, Ianto Jones."

"Goodbye, Sir."

Ianto sets the phone back in its cradle, stares at it for a few moments, then turns back to the CCTV. The others are still engrossed in their work, cheerfully unaware of the conversation he's just had. He wonders what they'd think if he told them, what they'd say, what they'd do. He doesn't think any of them would try to stop him going, but it's been so unsettled and strange without Jack. He can't imagine what it would be like to lose another teammate so soon.

Perhaps it's best if he just keeps this to himself for now.

**15 May 2008**

"Owen!"

Their doctor looks up, scowling. "What?"

"Phone. Ministry of Defence."

Owen doesn't budge from his lab. "So? Why aren't they talking to you? You're the one handles these things, aren't you?"

Ianto's fingers tap on the desk, impatient. "You're second-in-command, and he wants to talk to you this time."

For a moment, it looks as though Owen's going to hold out, but then Ianto raises his eyebrow and Owen sighs and starts trudging up to Jack's office, making a completely unnecessary amount of noise as he does so. Ianto hands the phone over and Owen takes it. "Yeah? What d'you want?"

Ianto can only shake his head and walk away.

A wave of unease hits him as he reaches the kitchenette. Why would they want to talk to Owen, and why now? Perhaps they've finally realized Jack is gone. Perhaps they've got some uncomfortable questions to ask Owen. It all seems so sudden, so out-of-character. It feels... wrong, in some unaccountable way, and for just a moment, Ianto has the strangest sense that he's forgotten something, that something is missing.

Only for a moment, and then it's gone, and he feels silly for even having worried. And when he comes out of the kitchenette, Owen is back at his autopsy table, muttering about "Bleeding waste of time that was, stupid pencil-pushers," and there's nothing to worry about at all.

**31 August 2008**

"Yes, Sir." Owen balances the phone between his shoulder and his ear, tips Jack's chair back, taps his pen against Jack's desk. "Oh, completely, Sir. I understand."

Tosh and Gwen are giggling together in the conference room. "I can't believe it," Tosh says, eyes sparkling. "I've never seen Owen this polite. Ever."

"He's finally had to start behaving himself," Gwen says. "Our little wanker, all grown up."

Ianto glances back down at Jack's office, at Owen restlessly tapping his pen against the desk and saying "If you're sure it's necessary," and "Of course, Sir," and feels just the slightest twinge of unease.

"To be honest, I'm not so sure that's Owen at all," he says, sliding into a seat next to Tosh. "Some sort of shape-changing alien masquerading as him, perhaps. We should lock him up in a cell with the weevils."

Tosh frowns thoughtfully. "I say we lock up the original Owen, keep this one around." Then she and Gwen are giggling again, and Ianto can't help but smile.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure it's all very funny, you lot larking about while I do all the real work." Owen leans against the doorway, scowling at them all in reassuring fashion. "Anyway, I've just got word from London. Looks like we're going on a little field trip."

*

That night, Ianto goes back to his flat for the first time in a week. It's perhaps the one place even messier than the Hub, dishes left everywhere when emergencies called him out in the middle of a meal, clothes flung helter-skelter from all the times he's had to dress in a tearing hurry, mail dropped at the ringing of the phone and left to lay. It's dusty, and something in the fridge has gone off; he can just smell it, faint, but disgusting. He'll have to clean before they leave. If he has the time.

In case he doesn't, Ianto ignores the mess for now, just hangs his coat on its peg and hurries to the hall closet. His rucksack is still there, exactly where he left it after his last trip to the Brecon Beacons.

_Jack's eyebrow goes up in surprise. "Taking the weekend off?"_

_Ianto flushes, shifts from foot to foot. He hasn't asked for anything from Jack for a long time, not since Lisa, but this is too important, far more so than guilt or pride. "Thought I'd go up to the Beacons, do a bit of climbing, sort of..." His bruises still ache, and his knee still twinges, but he can't not go. He can't let his memories of the Beacons be tainted by those people. He just can't._

_Jack looks at him for a long time, as if he's reading all this from Ianto's expression, and maybe he is, probably he is. Even if he isn't, it doesn't matter. Jack has a way of understanding these things, with or without an explanation._

_"Of course." The Captain's hand falls on his shoulder, heavy and reassuring. "Take all the time you need. Just... keep your phone with you. Just in case."_

He pulls the pack out, unzips it. All his gear is still exactly as he left it, neatly stowed away in its various compartments. Perfect for a bit of hiking in the Beacons, but not quite enough for this particular trip. He sets the bag aside and tugs a large, battered cardboard box from the depths of the closet.

_Lisa pulls an ice axe out, stares at it, then stares at him. "Planning on murdering someone, are you?"_

_"Trotsky was killed with an ice axe, you know," he says, and laughs when she gives him her least amused look. "I'd never. It'd dull the tip."_

_"Reassuring." Next comes his climbing harness, and she eyes it warily, considering. "If I didn't know better, Ianto, I'd think you had some sort of weird fetish."_

_"No weird fetishes." He leans in to kiss her. "Just the regular kind."_

He hasn't used any of it for so long, but it all seems to be in good condition. Ianto's already spoken to one of the undersecretaries at the Ministry, given her everyone's sizes and measurements and a long list of everything that they could possibly need, and he's been assured it'll be waiting for them in Nepal, but... There's something in having your own gear, something reassuring in the familiarity of it all. Anyway, it's always good to have spares, just in case.

The guidebook is at the bottom of the box, all but forgotten. The Lonely Planet guide to Nepal. He fishes it out, flips through the pages. A plane ticket falls out into his lap.

_"This job, then," Jamie says, the disappointment strong on his face despite his best attempts to conceal it. "Must be important, yeah? I mean, since you're cancelling the trip and all..."_

_"It's..."_

_How can Ianto explain it? "The thing is, I'm actually going to be a sort of librarian, except instead of books, I'll be cataloging alien technology. Oh, I didn't tell you that aliens are real? Turns out they are, and I've just been invited to work for the top secret government agency that hunts them down. Pay's not that great, but they've got terrific dental." Jamie'd think he'd gone mad. Perhaps he has. His world has been turned completely upside-down, and he's terrified, but it's brilliant. It's the biggest and the best mountain he's ever had to climb._

_But he can't tell a soul, not even Jamie. "I'm sorry. If there were any other way..."_

_Jamie manages a smile. "No worries. We'll go next year, give us more time to plan it out."_

_And Ianto agrees readily, even though he already sort of knows that next year isn't going to happen._

Ianto turns the plane ticket over in his hands, smiling slightly. Then he pulls out his wallet, tucks the ticket inside. After all this time, he's finally going to see the Himalayas. It may not be what he'd wanted as a kid, it may not be what he'd hoped for, but after all this time, it'll do.

**8 September 2008**

He finishes locking up the tourist office and returns to the Hub. Everything seems to be in order. All non-essential systems have been powered down. The automated program has been set to feed Janet and Myfanwy twice per day (although Myfanwy is already chirruping sulkily, and will no doubt be in a remarkably bad mood by the time they return). The alarms are set, and the Hub will lock down should anyone try to enter without the appropriate codes. He's sent Jack a text message informing him that the team is away and the Hub is locked down in their absence, and another reminding him what the codes are in case he's forgotten. He's also sent Jack two e-mails with the same information, just in case, and he's left notes with their travel details and emergency contact information on Jack's desk, on Ianto's desk in the tourist office, and the coffee maker. Just in case.

He has all his toiletries, pajamas, a towel, and clean pants in his overnight bag, as well as his GPS unit, his Bluetooth, his mobile, his gun, a compass, a Swiss Army knife, water purification tablets, a book ( _Eiger Dreams_ ), a pack of gum to keep his ears from popping too much during the flight, and motion sickness pills for Tosh, as she always forgets to bring her own. He's got shorts and light shirts for their time in the hot lowlands, and plenty of cold-weather garments for the mountains; he's got ropes and clips and carabiners, his climbing harness, hiking boots and mountaineering boots and liners. The rest of their gear will be waiting for them in Pokhara, and he's got all the shipping details and the tracking numbers, as well as a list of shops that rent out climbing gear. Just in case.

Everything seems to be in order.

He still feels like he's missing something. Something isn't right, something doesn't fit. There's something he's forgotten.

Gwen is waiting for him, tapping out a rhythm on her thigh, smiling. "Ready to go?"

The stab of fear, of dread, of _knowing_ , is so short that it seems imaginary. Forgotten a moment after it happens.

He smiles back at Gwen. "Ready."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reference to the red folder is a callback to the fic I wrote before this, Keeper of Memories. It was originally meant to be in the last chapter of that fic; Hellenebright convinced me that it was actually part of something else, which of course was the right call.


	2. Approach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Approach: (n) The path or route to the start of a technical climb. Although this is generally a walk or, at most, a scramble, it is occasionally as hazardous as the climb itself.

**10 September 2008**

The streets of Pokhara are still muddy, slippery from the trailing edge of the monsoons, but the sky is brilliantly blue and the sun is hot on his shoulders as he makes his slow way towards Phewa Tal. He supposes that he ought to be resting; everyone else is, after the flight and the bus, but he just can't seem to be still right now. Not with the mountains so close, pressing in all around him.

The Himalayas. Home to the Eight-thousanders, the fourteen tallest mountains in the world. Time was he could have listed them all (and he still could, most likely; he has a talent for holding on to all sorts of information, some of it useful, most of it not). Time was, he'd cherished dreams of climbing them, all the way up to the roof of the world. But. Times change, and one thing leads to another, and Torchwood had found him instead. There isn't really anything to regret about it. He has more than enough danger in his life to be content; he doesn't need the mountains anymore.

Still, old dreams die hard, and now that he's in the shadow of the Himalayas, it's hard to deny their pull.

Pokhara is bustling with trekkers, climbers, adventurers and tourists of all types. There are men in hemp shorts with their beards twisted into dreadlocks, middle-aged couples sweating in the heat, one woman with perfectly coiffed hair and hiking gear so ostentatiously new that it almost gleams. She gives him a slightly contemptuous look and he grins back, bemused. Out of the cute suits, he's just another face in the throng. It's a good feeling. It's like his uni days, spending the summer wandering from climb to climb with nothing to worry about except placating his mum.

It's a shame, really, that they're here for work. He'd like some time just to enjoy the sunlight and the verdant green, so different from Cardiff. He'd like to get lost in the crowds of chattering people, go visit some temples or something, play tourist for a while. More than anything, he'd like to find some small peak to climb, just a little one, for old time's sake. He could take Gwen along; she seems fascinated by the mountains, and it'd be nice to have someone to go climbing with. A little bit of a vacation. Lord knows they've earned it.

But the men from London are arriving tomorrow, and after that, it's briefings and planning and then they'll be on the move. Whatever they're looking for, the Ministry of Defence is eager for them to find it.

He taps out a rhythm on his thigh as he walks.

Finally, he's there, on the shores of the lake, the mountains slicing the sky to either side and reflected on the peaceful water. One of the most spectacular vistas in all the world, and he's here, right now. That's all that really matters.

He grins, shutting his eyes and turning his face to the sunlight. _Thank you, Harold Saxon._

*

He comes back to the hotel with a bag of gifts to take home to his family dangling from his wrist, a thick wad of trekking maps (souvenirs of all the mountains he isn't going to climb) shoved into his pocket. Several large boxes are waiting for him in the manager's office. It takes three trips up the narrow staircase (with help from both the hotel's porters), but he manages to get them into the room he and Owen are sharing, spilled haphazardly across the floor.

Owen, sprawled in a sweaty heap on the bed, looks up and groans at him. "I thought it was cold in the Himalayas."

"We're not in the Himalayas yet, and I did tell you to pack shorts."

Owen just rolls his eyes. "Like you really expected me to listen. When have I ever?" It's more self-deprecating than Ianto expected, and it coaxes an answering smile.

"There's another pair of shorts in my bag, if you want," he says, slitting the first box open with his pocket knife. "You'll need a belt, though."

"You're a good man, Teaboy," Owen says, and immediately begins to paw through Ianto's luggage.

Ianto grimaces, realizing too late that he shouldn't have offered Owen a chance to snoop. "Right. You take the boxes, I'll find the shorts."

Owen is already studying a coil of rope. "I don't know what you had in mind for this, Ianto, but I'm not interested, thank you."

"Actually, Owen, we were going to tie you up and leave you here," Gwen says, grinning at them from the doorway. Then she sees the boxes, and her eyes light up. "Ooh! What's all this, then?" She dives into the open box without waiting for a reply.

"Climbing gear," Ianto says, swatting Owen's hands away from his suitcase. He shifts a stack of neatly folded t-shirts and locates a pair of shorts. "There. Now go change."

Owen takes the shorts, but doesn't go anywhere, as Gwen unpacks a set of crampons and looks askance at the spikes. "So what are these?" she asks.

He zips his suitcase shut before he steps away from it. "Crampons." Owen sniggers behind him. "For ice climbing. Here, let me show you." He finds a pair of boots near the bottom of the box, pulls one out, and deftly straps one of the crampons to it. "You dig the points into the ice, and then use that and your ice axe to pull you up the slope."

Tosh is watching from the doorway. "I didn't know you were a climber, Ianto."

"He's not," Owen says, smirking. "Looked it up on wikipedia before we left."

"For your information, Owen, I did quite a bit of climbing when I was a student. Haven't for a while, though."

Gwen beams at him. "Well, we're in the perfect place for you to get back into it, aren't we?" She snatches the pocketknife up off the floor and grabs another box.

"Do you think we'll be doing it, then?" Tosh asks, folding herself on the floor next to Ianto. She looks a bit uneasy. "Climbing mountains and everything?"

Ianto can only shrug and look over at Owen, who shrugs back. "Mr. Saxon said we'd have all the gear we needed ordered for us," Owen says. "If he sent us all this stuff..."

"I'm sure we won't be doing anything much," Ianto says, trying to ease Tosh's nervousness. "Probably not anything higher than in the Beacons."

Her face tightens slightly, and Ianto realizes too late that he really should have thought before he spoke.

"Er... Well. I'll go and change, then," Owen says, and flees.

**11 September 2008**

The jet lag is hitting hard now, and Ianto leans back in his chair a bit, fights to keep his eyes open as the men from Harold Saxon's new and improved Torchwood One go over their plans. "So," one of them says (Scott, maybe? Or is it Steve?), "given that we don't want too many civilians mixed up in this, Mr. Saxon thought it best that we keep our team light. That means that Dr. Harper will be acting as our team doctor, and Miss Sato --"

"Dr. Sato, actually," she says, with a slight frown.

Steve (has to be Steve; Steve is the one with the quiff and the sharp, pointed chin) gives her a grin that's just a touch condescending. "Right. _Doctor_ Sato will be handling our communications links. We've got a satellite phone that should allow us to keep in regular contact with the boys back in London." Steve and Scott share a look that raises Ianto's hackles a bit. He remembers his time back in London, the way they talked of the other branches of Torchwood, particularly the rag-tag group of misfits based in Cardiff. Some things, apparently, never change.

Owen pushes his chair back at a tilt and gnaws on the end of his pen. "Not that I can't handle it, because I can, and not that I'm not a genius, because I am, but high altitude medicine isn't exactly my specialty."

Steve turns the condescension on him. "I wouldn't worry about it much. The trek --" Owen winces at the very word -- "should give us plenty of time to acclimatize, and anyway, we're not going all that high up. The artifact was spotted near someplace called Camp Three --"

"Camp Three?" Ianto's never climbed in the Himalayas, but he's read every book on them that he could get his hands on, so he knows a bit about the subject. "On which mountain?"

The men from London glance at each other, then one of them (Scott - he's got the sandy hair and the meticulous stubble) starts shuffling through a stack of papers. Steve taps his fingers on the table. Rat-a-tat- _tat_. Rat-a-tat- _tat!_ "Looks like it's..." Scott frowns. "Dawl... Dolly-gear..."

"Dhaulagiri." 8,167 meters above sea level. Seventh highest mountain in the world. Ianto's throat goes a little dry.

"That's the one." Scott gives him a speculative sort of look, and glances at another bit of paper. "Ianto Jones. You're the archivist, right?"

"Yes." There's nothing more to say to that, so he doesn't say anything.

Steve steps in, with his vaguely condescending smile. "You'll be in charge of the artifact once we locate it, of course. We won't be able to bring much along in the way of storage for it; that sort of thing is a bit too heavy to drag up a mountainside, so you'll have to rig something up to keep it from getting jostled."

Now Scott is tapping on the table. Rat-a-tat- _tat_. Rat-a-tat- _tat!_ "I'm sure I'll sort something out," Ianto says. "Do we know what exactly we're looking for?"

"The climbers who spotted it didn't give us the best description, unfortunately." Steve shakes his head, with a weary sigh for all the inadequacies of laymen. "The bit they could see was rounded, like a sphere, sort of a goldy bronze color. Rather large, apparently. They didn't go too near, so we don't know if there were any markings on it."

Tosh, who had been leaning forward, sinks back into her chair, disappointment written on her face.

_Sphere. Gold. Large._ The memory pricks at the back of his brain, but vanishes in a fog of weariness and the relentless rat-a-tat- _tat!_ drumming of fingers on the tabletop.

*

"So," Owen says, when they're safely back in the hotel room. "Camp Three."

Ianto sighs and tries to find a comfortable position on the hard, lumpy mattress. "Dhaulagiri is one of the biggest mountains in the world; it's not the sort of thing you can climb in a day. So you set up four different camps, each one nearer the summit. Given Dhaulagiri's height, Camp Three would probably be about seven thousand meters above sea level. Maybe a bit higher."

"Ah." They fall silent, listening to a bus rattling down the street, sweating on their beds. "Tosh isn't going to like that."

"No. She really isn't."

"You don't like it much either, do you?"

"Not particularly, no." But then, he almost does, in a way. They're not going to the summit, obviously, but he's never had a chance to climb this high before, and all the old longings are back with a vengeance. Just to be there for a little while, even if they go no higher than Base Camp...

Owen sighs heavily and gets out of bed. Ianto turns his head and watches as Owen rifles through his suitcase, finally producing a thick sheaf of papers. Glancing up, meeting Ianto's eyes, Owen flushes. "Acute Mountain Sickness," he says, brandishing one set of papers. He holds out another. "High Altitude Pulmonary Edema." Then another. "High Altitude Cerebral Edema."

Caught off-guard by Owen's tense, almost defensive tone, Ianto says nothing. Owen takes it rather badly. "Look, I'm not an idiot, you know. I know what happens to people who climb mountains. So don't think..."

" _Owen._ " Owen falls rebelliously silent, and Ianto offers him a half-smile. "I never said you were an idiot."

Silence. Owen sighs again and flops down on his bed, on his stomach, and begins reading.

Ianto closes his eyes, tries to get comfortable. _Acute Mountain Sickness. High Altitude Pulmonary Edema. High Altitude Cerebral Edema._ So many things that could go wrong, and he's not exactly traveling with experienced climbers. They'll have a guide, of course, and sherpas and porters to assist them, but... Suddenly, Dhaulagiri sounds so much less enticing.

"Owen," he says, at last. "Why are we here?"

"I take it you don't mean life, the universe, and everything?" Owen shakes his head. "You know the drill, Ianto. Track down aliens, arm the human race, 21st century is when it all changes, blah blah blah."

Ianto smiles. "You forgot the bit about how we've got to be ready." But the uncertainty comes out in his voice.

Owen drops his paper and just looks at Ianto for a long time. There's something unsettling in his eyes, something Ianto knows but cannot name. "Look, Harold Saxon wants us here, and he hasn't led us wrong yet. Whatever his reasons are, I'm sure he's got them, and I'm sure they're good ones. That enough for you?"

It is, of course it is, and yet for a second, Ianto feels as though it shouldn't be. But he's very tired, and it's very hot, and he just wants a bit of a rest.

He falls asleep to the sound of Owen tapping out a restless rhythm on the side of his mattress.

**12 September 2008**

They don't step off the bus so much as they fall off, tumbling out one after another. Ianto leans against the hot metal for a moment, overwhelmed by terror, nausea, and diesel fumes. He never, ever wants to get on another bus ever again. "Christ Almighty," Owen swears, obviously sharing Ianto's feelings on the subject. "If that's what travel is like here, I'd just as soon walk."

"Glad to hear it, mate." A tall man, grin flashing from behind a blond beard, strides toward them, followed by a small cadre of sherpas and porters. They immediately descend on the luggage compartment, pulling bags out with brisk efficiency. "Hillary Edmund Hall," the blond man continues. He's got a strong accent, one Ianto recognizes: New Zealand. "Folks call me Hill. I'll be your guide up to Dhaulagiri."

Hands are shaken. Introductions are made. "Right then," Hillary says, beaming at them all in a way that reminds Ianto, uncomfortably, of his Captain. "First stop is the inn. Not much, but it's homey, and the dal bhat isn't too bad. Suggest you don't drink, though; no one wants to be hungover the first day of a trek. I remember this group of Japanese businessmen I had once, headed to Everest Base Camp, now those blokes could really put 'em away, swear they had hollow legs..."

Gwen is hanging back, and Ianto waits for her. Her eyes are fixed on Scott, who's got a mobile pressed to his ear and is cooing endearments into it. "Miss you too, sweetheart," he says, voice a bit high, as though he's talking to a dog or a small child. "Me too. Miss you so much."

It's more irritating than anything else, but Gwen looks sad, a bit wistful, maybe. "You could call Rhys when we get to the inn, you know," Ianto suggests, trying to coax some of the melancholy off her face.

She only sighs. "I could, I guess. But I'm not so sure he'd answer."

There isn't anything Ianto can say to that, any advice to give. But he rests his hand on Gwen's shoulder and gives a bit of a squeeze, and she manages to smile at him. "It's weird, isn't it?" she asks, looking back at Scott. "I feel like I spend half my time with that stupid Bluetooth on, yelling into it like a lunatic. Feels a bit naked, going without."

"It's rather nice, actually," Ianto suggests. "Getting away from the Hub, into the sunlight, no computers or mobiles or anything. Clears your head. Nice fresh air."

She giggles. "You sound like Jack. And our last excursion into fresh air didn't go so well."

There's an odd twist in his stomach, and that sense again of something he ought to remember, something he ought to know. "I suppose not. Still... don't suppose we're too likely to see cannibals again. Yetis, maybe. Or some other horrible furry monster."

This time, Gwen laughs outright, and just the sound of it erases Ianto's sense of unease.

**15 September 2008**

They spent their first night on the road in a tourist lodge, shivering on wooden bunks, their only source of heat a stove fuelled by yak dung, of all things. It didn't give much warmth, but it produced a lot of smoke, and Owen's been coughing ever since, a nagging, dry cough that won't give him any peace.

There's something unsettling about it, Owen coughing. It's still hot enough here that he's wearing Ianto's shorts, belted tight around his narrow waist, and the way his bony knees stick out from underneath makes him look weirdly helpless, like a scrawny, asthmatic kid. Ianto tries not to think about it much, but it's hard.

Then Gwen forgets to put sunblock on, and gets burnt so bad that she can't sleep. Tosh's brand new boots give her blisters. Owen coughs and coughs. It's all small things, nothing to worry about, really, but then again, the small things have always been Ianto's job. He can't just switch it off.

"Worried?" Hillary sits down beside him, a bowl of pasta in his huge, gnarled hands. He wraps the noodles around his fork, slurps them down. Sauce gets on his beard.

"A bit," Ianto admits. "They've never really climbed before, and it's a lot..."

"Trust me," Hillary says with a grin. "Nothing to worry about. Some of the sad sacks I've gotten up these mountains... At least you lot are in halfway decent shape. Tell you what, though; we're getting into the foothills, lots of little peaks around, and we've got to take our time getting to Dhaulagiri proper, to acclimatize and all. Why don't I take you on a few side trips, let you get some practice in? Or, seeing as I've got to organize the sherpas and keep your friends in London updated all the time, you can do it."

"Me?" Ianto fights a blush, but can't quite master it.

Hillary points at Ianto's feet. "That's a well-worn pair of boots you've got there, Mr. Jones. And you said that _they_ hadn't climbed before, not that you hadn't." Ianto stares down at the tent floor, embarrassed, but pleased. "What's the biggest peak you've bagged?"

Ianto's flush deepens. "Mt. Cook," he says, not daring to look up. "Aoraki."

"Aaahh!" Ianto can feel the heat of Hillary's grin. "This'll be nothing to you, then. Aoraki may not be the tallest, but it's a right monster if you don't know what you're doing. Got caught in a storm once trying to do a traverse of the three peaks, my mate and I... Christ, that was a time. We were stuck in our tent for three days, me and him, and he's melting ice down on the stove so we've at least got something to drink, and then there's this whoosh and the inner shell of the tent just goes up into flames, so I'm trying to put it out with my sleeping bag, which just ruins both of them, of course. So we're freezing cold, one sleeping bag between us, and the bastard kicks in his sleep, of course..."

Ianto sits, and listens, and laughs, and for a few minutes, forgets everything else.

**18 September 2008**

Ianto stays in the lead on their side trips for the most part, if only to keep Gwen from hurrying off on her own path and getting lost, but Tosh is lagging behind this time, so he drops back to check on her. "How're your feet?" he asks, taking her hand and helping her up a particularly slippery incline.

She rests her hands on her hips, panting a bit. "Not so bad. Owen had a look at them last night, wrapped them up. I'm a bit out of shape, I guess. And it's a bit..." She looks nervously off to the side.

"High," he finishes, with a rueful grin. "Just concentrate on the path and you'll be fine."

"If this keeps up, I'll be completely useless when we're actually on the mountain," she admits, biting her lip.

"You'll be fine," he says again. "I'll keep an eye on you. Nothing's going to go wrong."

She looks into the distance, and frowns. "Maybe I'm not the one you should be keeping an eye on."

He follows her gaze and sees something that makes his heart tighten up in his chest. Gwen is blithely scrambling up a cliff face that's far too high to be safe, no ropes, no harness, nothing.

Ianto feels a sudden, semi-hysterical urge to demand that Gwen come down from there _right now young lady!_ Is this what he put his parents through for so many years? Grabbing a coil of rope from his pack (wishing vainly that he'd thought to bring more of his gear), he hurries to the base of the cliff, where Owen is watching, bemused. "Sorry, mate," he says. "She was half up when I got here, and I figured you'd rather not have to rescue both of us."

"Thanks, Owen," he says. "Gwen! I'm coming up after you!"

She turns and actually lets go with one hand to wave at him, and he has to quash a wave of panic. Owen swears quietly, shaking his head. "And please don't do that again!" Ianto adds, before beginning to climb after her.

Gwen, apparently, has the luck of small children and drunkards everywhere, as she's managed to find the easiest possible bit of rock to climb. It's jagged and pockmarked, with lots of places for hands and feet to grip, none of them too far apart. Ianto hurries up it, reaching the top barely five minutes after Gwen. "Sorry," she says, when he pulls himself up over the edge. "Only I thought, you know, get a bit of practice in, since we're going mountain-climbing, and all."

He sits next to her, their legs dangling over the side. "I don't suppose you thought about how you were going to get down?"

"I... oh." She looks abashed for a moment, brushing her hair out of her eyes.

And this is definitely what he put his parents through. He'll have to call and apologize when he gets back to Wales... "Never mind. Rest a bit, and I'll help you down."

"Thanks." She smiles at him. "Sorry. Got a bit ahead of myself, didn't I?"

"Only a bit." At his answering smile, her face lights up.

"It is a lovely view from here, though, isn't it?"

He looks out for the first time, at the green hills they're still climbing through, the yak kharkas dotting the landscape at irregular intervals, and the saw teeth of the Dhaulagiri Himal, white-capped and sharp, cutting into the horizon. "It's beautiful."

After a bit of respite, he wraps the rope around her in an improvised harness, tying himself in to the other end with just a few meters between them, enough for her to have some slack without allowing her to drop straight to the ground. "Right. I'll go first. Stay on my right side, and I'll help you find your footholds, all right?"

"Thank you," she says again, and she still looks a bit chagrined, but not enough to be comforting.

Never mind. He'll lecture her when they've made it down.

"Right." He starts down, and once he's secure on the rock face, has her follow after.

It isn't as bad as it could be, really. There's a few bits where he has to reach out and put her feet where he wants them, and she keeps dislodging small pebbles at just the right angle for them to bounce off his head, but she's got the makings of a decent climber. Still, when they're finally firm on the ground, he gives her a stern look as he unties her from the rope. "We're not doing this again, Gwen," he says.

"No," she replies, and he doesn't quite believe her.

Ianto sighs, and starts coiling up his rope before he stows it in his pack. "Look, we'll find a good spot tomorrow or the next day, and I'll set up a belay. Then you can practice all you like. Just... not on your own, all right?"

Her grin is practically blinding.

"Actually," Tosh says, and her voice is quiet, "we should all practice, shouldn't we? I mean, if we're going up a mountain... We need to know what we're doing, and right now, Ianto's the only one who does." He blinks at her, a bit surprised. "So I think he should teach us how."

Ianto looks at Owen. Owen shrugs. "Right," Ianto says, feeling a bit blindsided. "Well. I'll do what I can."

**21 September 2008**

Ianto drops to the ground, tired and soaked with sweat, and takes off his helmet, setting his rope and protective gear down carefully before dropping the harness next to them. He pauses, eyes closed, and considers his t-shirt, damp with perspiration and gritty from climbing up and down the rock all day. With a quick, decisive gesture, he yanks it over his head and off, balling it up in his hand. Gwen lets out a soft, startled sound, almost a squeak, really, and he blinks at her, confused. "What?"

"Nothing!" Her eyes are very wide. "It's just... well, I'm used to the suits, and this is a bit... Um..."

"Naked," Tosh supplies, and then blushes. Gwen looks at her, and they giggle.

Ianto quickly crouches down to gather up his climbing gear, and tells himself that he's just flushed from climbing all day.

Owen coughs. "All right, ladies, that's enough. Give the young lad some space, yeah? Tosh, I want to look at your feet. Yours too, Gwen. You've been up and down that rock all day."

By the time Ianto is on his feet, his gear wrapped up in his t-shirt and clutched almost protectively to his bare chest, his team has wandered off towards the girls' tent, disappearing under the flap. Ianto turns to walk to his own tent, but Steve is standing there, blocking his path. "Not bad," the Londoner says, slapping Ianto on the arm. "You're quite the climber."

There's something in his smile that makes Ianto's skin itch. He forces the irritation down, keeps his voice polite, if only just. "I've done a bit, yeah," he says, and starts making for his tent, forcing Steve to scramble to keep up with him.

"It's not in your files," Steve says.

"I'm an archivist," Ianto points out. "It's not a skill you need too often when you're cataloging alien tech." He pushes his way inside the two-man tent he and Owen share, hoping that the Londoner won't follow.

He does, of course, sitting on Owen's sleeping bag as easily as if it were his own. Ianto ignores him, rummaging in his pack for a fresh t-shirt. "Guess you never know when it's going to come in handy, huh?" Steve laughs; Ianto does not. "Anyway, I just wanted to... I mean, it's bothering you too, right? How long this is taking?"

Now Ianto does look at him, clean t-shirt still loosely clenched in his hands. "It's perfectly standard. If anything, we should be taking it slower."

"You don't really believe that, do you? Besides... this is important to Mr. Saxon. _Really_ important. He's going to be Prime Minister, you know. If we can impress him now, show him what we're capable of..." Steve spreads his hands to suggest the limitless possibilities, grinning broadly.

Ianto takes a deep breath, and tries to sort out why he's suddenly so damned frightened. "I'm sure. However, Hillary's been guiding in the Himalayas for nearly twelve years. He knows the risks, and he knows what to do. I trust him."

Steve leans in, his hand hitting the canvas floor of the tent. Rat-a-tat- _tat._ Rat-a-tat- _tat!_ "Come on, Ianto. You're a good climber; you know what you're doing. I mean, really, we shouldn't have any civilians on this trip at all. We bring the artifact down from Mount Dolly-whatsit, just us, no guides or sherpas; we'll really have Saxon's attention then, won't we? Huge potential. We could try to get you back in London, at the very least. Christ knows you're wasted on Cardiff."

_I'm needed here_ , he'd said, when Saxon first offered him the chance to go back to Torchwood One. Nothing's changed since then; if anything, the team needs him even more now. Ianto's hands clench around the t-shirt. "I'm going to check on my team," he says, very quietly, and then bursts out of his tent, leaving Steve to gape after him.

Outside, he pauses, pulls the t-shirt on, tries to collect himself a little bit. What the hell is going on? Steve talking about advancement, power, going back to London, getting rid of the guides... Ianto knows he needs to do something. Maybe he should try calling Saxon himself; the man seems friendly enough, has always been good to them. Saxon should know, he should be warned...

For some reason, Ianto looks down at himself, watches his hand pat out a nervous rhythm against his thigh. Rat-a-tat- _tat._ Rat-a-tat- _tat!_ And even though he's outside, in the bright, warm sunlight, he is suddenly so cold.

No. No, he won't call Harold Saxon, after all. It doesn't seem like such a good idea. Perhaps, at this moment, it's best that he just doesn't tell anyone. Not until he really knows what's happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit about the yak dung stove causing Owen's cough is a direct pull from Jon Krakauer's _Into Thin Air_.


	3. Exposure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exposure: (n) The condition of being on high vertical rock with full consciousness that nothing exists between you and the distant ground but thin air.

**23 September 2008**

Ianto's taking two breaths for every step, and his lungs still burn with the need for oxygen.

He pauses for a moment, leaning on his ice ax, panting. The air is thin and unsatisfying, and the sun is pounding down mercilessly, making him sweat even though he's standing on a glacier. He's pushed himself hard lately, too hard, and his legs shake with exhaustion

Gwen trudges up behind him, lays a gloved hand on his arm. "You all right?"

"Just giving you a chance to catch up," he lies, pushing his heel down as far as he can to still his leg's trembling.

"Right." He can't see her eyes, hidden behind her climbing goggles, but he gets the feeling she doesn't quite believe him.

He looks back down the line and sees Tosh and Owen standing about twenty meters below them. Tosh's head is down, and Owen is hovering over her; they're not quite touching. After a little bit, Tosh glances up at them, raises her hand in a feeble wave. Ianto waves back.

"We should keep going," Gwen says. "We're about to lose our guide."

Sure enough, Hillary is a receding spot on the horizon, flanked by Scott and Steve in their bright red down suits. "Yeah," Ianto says, and takes another deep breath. It doesn't help anything very much. "Come on."

They trudge on, two breaths for every step.

*

He hikes the last few meters down into Base Camp and then collapses, utterly exhausted. The sun is covered over by clouds now, and a few white flakes drift down from the sky. The sherpas are already hard at work setting up the tents, and a plume of smoke is rising from the mess; the kerosene stoves have been lit. He should get a cup of tea or something.

In a minute. Not now.

Gwen staggers up next to him and flops down on her back with her arms and legs splayed like a child making a snow angel. "I'm exhausted," she announces. "Is it always this hard?"

"I suppose so," Ianto says, and doesn't tell her that he's never climbed this high in his life, and therefore wouldn't know. "It's the oxygen, or the lack of it, anyway. Your body has to work twice as hard as normal to support itself."

"Ah." She turns her head to look at him. "Your leg's still shaking."

"Disco knee." Her eyebrow goes up, and he musters a smile. "It's a technical term."

She lets out a feeble, exhausted laugh.

"I'll see if there's any tea," he says, making a half-hearted attempt to stand. Gwen's hand lands heavily on his thigh, holding him down.

" _You_ will sit here and rest," she says. She sounds so much like his mother. "I'll get the tea. In a minute."

It's his turn to laugh, and after a second, she lets him go, and he doesn't get up. "How far back were Tosh and Owen?" he asks.

"Not too far. They should be along any minute now. So stop your fussing."

Ianto raises his eyebrow at her, but she only smiles. "Am I fussing?"

"Yes."

He pulls a bottle of water out of his pack, uncaps it, and drains half of it in one go, soothing the parched tissues of his throat before holding it out to Gwen. She sits up and takes it, drinking as thirstily as he did. "Seems a bit empty around here," Gwen notes, handing the empty bottle back to him. "I'd thought there'd be more people, other climbers, things like that."

She's right, of course. It's late in the season, but there ought to be at least one other team trying to get a summit attempt in before the snow is too heavy. "They might have blocked climbing permits until we're done," Ianto says, trying to rationalize it to himself as well as to Gwen. But there's fear, tasting like metal on his tongue, and he's not so sure anymore. He glances down at his gloved hand, but it's still. "Save us having to retcon a lot of climbers and sherpas who've seen something they oughtn't."

"I suppose." Gwen's voice is suddenly a bit strained, and Ianto looks at her, trying to read her expression behind her tinted goggles. She doesn't look entirely happy. "It just feels a bit... I don't know, like..."

Footsteps crunch in the snow behind them, and there's a muffled sound of coughing. Gwen is up in a flash, nervously brushing the front of her down suit. "That'll be Owen and Tosh, then."

Ianto turns and follows as she makes her way to them; they're staggering a bit, close but not touching. Owen's coughing into his closed fist, and Tosh is stooped slightly, her feet dragging. "I'm fine," Owen grumbles, not even looking up at them. "'S all the bloody smoke, campfires and that. Gets in my lungs. Whose idea was it to use yak dung as fuel, anyway?"

"Probably a yak herder's," Ianto says, and almost puts an arm around Owen's back to hold him up before thinking better of it. "They've already got the mess tent set up. We'll get you into the warm, get you a cup of tea."

Owen coughs, trudging along to the mess tent.

**24 September 2008**

Ianto jerks awake, gasping desperately for air, the feeling of suffocation still heavy in his chest. It's minutes before he finally relaxes back into his sleeping bag, his lungs satisfied, for now.

He's lost track of how many times he's woken up like this. It seems he can't doze for more than half an hour without his body forgetting how to breathe this new, thin air. It's early morning - he knows that without looking at his watch - and he is exhausted, but he knows he cannot sleep.

He closes his eyes, and tries anyway.

In the sleeping bag next to his, Owen twitches and stirs, every bit as restless as he is.

*

"The sat phone is staying down here," Hill says, arms folded. "If we need to get in touch with London or wherever else, we'll radio down to Toshie and she'll do it for us."

Steve glares at Toshiko, expression mutinous, and Ianto takes a protective step towards her. "But what if --"

"Hillary's right," Ianto says, and tries to keep his voice gentle, even, level. "Mr. Saxon knows that we're on the mountain now; he knows it's going to take a bit of time to get up there. He'll wait. This is important to him. And if the artifact's as large as you say, we'll need all hands to get it down. We can't have that and the satellite phone as well."

The glare is turned on him; it's the first time they've spoken since Steve tried to bribe him into abandoning their guide, and it's obvious the resentment has only gotten worse. Ianto thinks, briefly, of the man he met in Pokhara, the man he shared that hideous bus ride with. He hadn't liked Steve very much then, but at least he'd been human. He doesn't seem so human anymore. "Mr. Saxon will hear about this," Steve says, and turns away, stomping off towards the tent that holds all their communications equipment.

"Of course he will," Tosh mutters, glaring at Steve's retreating back.

"It's not..." Scott holds his hand out, pleadingly. "Look, he's stressed, he hasn't done a lot of field work; he's taking this too seriously. I'll talk to him, I'll..."

Ianto looks at the man, his face sunburned in spots, pale in others, pinched with pain. "Maybe you should go visit Owen first, let him have a look at you," he says.

Scott shakes his head, then winces as if the movement hurts him. "It's nothing, just a headache. I'll... I'll go get Steve a cuppa, that'll sort him out, I think. He doesn't mean it. He really doesn't." And before Ianto can protest further, Scott too is gone, his steps slower, almost staggering.

Hillary studies Tosh, his brow furrowed. "You'll be all right, won't you, Toshie? I'll leave Anj Dorje and a couple of the other boys with you; you'll be well-looked after. And we'll keep in contact, I promise you. You'll know everything that happens."

Tosh manages to smile. "It's fine, really. Honestly, I've never been very good with heights. I'd just as soon stay down here where it's safe."

"That's my girl." Hillary's smile is touched by strain. "But you, my lad," he says, clapping Ianto on the shoulder, "are coming with me. I need a voice of reason. Besides, you're a damned good climber. Damned good."

"Thank you, sir," Ianto says, ducking his head a little bit.

Hillary chuckles. "Sir. I like that." His eyes drift back towards the mountain, his face a bit wistful. "Shame your Mr. Saxon's in such a hurry. It'd be nice to make a try for the summit; maybe not everyone, but you and I, lad, we could do it. Get your first eight-thousander."

For just a moment, Ianto allows himself to dream of it. If it weren't for Harold Saxon, if he didn't have his team to think about, if he could just try for it, even if he didn't make it... "It's a shame, sir."

"That it is, lad." Hillary sighs. "Christ, I'll be glad to be up there." He starts tapping on his thigh. Rat-a-tat- _tat!_ Ianto's eyes meet Tosh's, and despite the situation, he feels a sudden wave of relief at the look on her face. He isn't the only one who's noticed. "You'll be all right, though, Toshie?" Hill asks again, and she smiles, quick and bright and fake.

"Of course I will. You worry about yourselves, up there." She gives Ianto a significant look, and he nods a reassurance to her.

Hillary catches it, and grins. "No worries, Toshie. Ianto will look after all of us." One last pat on Ianto's shoulder, and it's his turn to stride away, meeting up with the leader of their climbing sherpas, Tenzing, halfway to the tents.

Tosh folds her arms and shivers, and Ianto rests one hand on her back as they return to their own little corner of the vast campsite. "I don't like this," she says, quietly. "I don't like any of it, but I can't put my finger on why."

"It's just... wrong." Ianto stares up at the sky -- flat white clouds, and a few flakes still drifting down. The snows are early this year. "Are you sure you're all right with this, Tosh? Splitting us up like this? Scott or Steve could stay with the communications equipment, they could..."

"No." She shakes her head, her face grim. "I don't... there's something funny going on with them. It isn't safe. The way Steve goes on, Harold Saxon this and that... And Scott's all right, I suppose, but we can't have him on the phone to his fiancee when we need the line for other things. That's our link to the outside world. It needs to be in safe hands."

"If you're sure."

Tosh stops in her tracks, turns back to look at the mountain. This close, Dhaulagiri is overwhelming; you can't get all of it in view, no matter how hard you try. It's an immensity of snow and ice and black, unforgiving rock, rough and jagged slopes, sheer expanses of ice wall. "Just bring them back down," she says, and he doesn't need to ask who "they" are. Gwen and Owen are the only ones he can protect. "That's all I ask."

"I promise, Tosh," he says, his hand resting in the middle of her back. "I promise."

*

He wakes up gasping for air, over and over again.

**25 September 2008**

Two of the sherpas are ill with what they insist is food poisoning. Owen is convinced it's altitude sickness. "They're not leaving this bloody tent, and that's final," he snaps, folding his arms and scowling.

Tenzing doesn't appear to be very impressed. "We need them. We need to fix ropes."

"Great. Fantastic." Ianto can't help but feel a little sorry for Tenzing. Their sirdar is stubborn, but he's got nothing on Owen when there are patients to protect. "Take someone else."

"There is no one else," Tenzing insists.

"Then it'll keep a day until I know they're out of danger."

Tenzing flushes. "Your Mr. Saxon --"

"He's not my anything!" Owen coughs, a sudden spasm, and Ianto fights the urge to hold him up.

"I'll go," he says, instead, and manages to meet Tenzing's speculative gaze. "I want to get a feel for the route anyway, and we do need those ropes."

Tenzing looks him up and down, nods slightly. "I lead. You follow. No higher than Camp One."

Ianto nods back. "Agreed."

"Fine." Tenzing gives Owen one last, hard stare, then turns and stalks out of the tent.

It's Ianto's turn to suffer Owen's glare, and he meets it as steadily as he can. "You heard Tenzing," Ianto says, quietly. "I'm not haring up there doing anything heroic. I'll follow him up, and I'll follow him down again. I just want to get a feel for the climb."

"Fine." Owen turns back to his reluctant patients, and, knowing a dismissal when he sees it, Ianto goes to leave. Owen's voice stops him when he reaches the tent flap. "You made Tosh a promise. Remember that."

Ianto turns back, meets Owen's eyes. "Don't worry. I keep my promises."

Owen touches his left shoulder, where Ianto once sent a bullet through him, and almost smiles. "Maybe you do. Just don't do anything stupid."

"I won't," Ianto says, giving a final nod to Owen before he turns to go.

He diverts to his own tent, just to grab his gear, and then hurries to meet Tenzing at the base of the path. There's another sherpa standing there, eyeing him with amusement. Ianto ignores them both, sits down to buckle on his crampons, checking to make sure there's no snow lodged in the points. Gwen rushes up to him, her eyes worried. "You're going up already?" she asks.

Ianto manages a reassuring smile. "We're just putting up new ropes, so we'll have something to hang on to while we're climbing. Easier for everyone. I won't be long, I promise."

"But... and why isn't Hillary..."

"He has important phone call." Tenzing doesn't sound happy. "Didn't want us to wait."

Gwen's face falls, and she looks nervously to Ianto. "Do you want me... I could come..."

"It's all right, Gwen." He says it as gently as he can; he refuses to make her feel worthless. "Actually, I need you to help Tosh out. She's going to see if she can get some of the equipment working, run some scans, try to get an energy signature off that device. She could use a spare set of hands. And someone to keep Steve from bothering her too much."

Gwen gives him a rueful grin. "Fair enough. Be careful up there, Ianto."

"I will."

She walks away, but turns back a few seconds later, her smile broader and more genuine. "I'll make sure there's a cup of coffee waiting when you get back."

Surprised, Ianto can do nothing but laugh. He feels a bit better as he gets his crampons buckled to his plastic mountaineering boots. It's his turn to be the one in the field, he supposes.

He follows Tenzing's path exactly; he feeds him rope when he needs it; he does exactly what he is told, when he is told to do it. It's something he's very good at. And as he's doing all that, he looks at his surroundings, committing each landmark to memory. He needs to be able to make this route exhausted, sick, at night. He's promised Tosh that he'll get them down safely. He will keep his promise.

**26 September 2008**

This time, he lets Gwen come along.

She and Tosh spent all yesterday trying and failing to get some sort of energy signature off the alien device. They know that it's there - when the sun peeks through the clouds, there's a glint of gold, the light reflecting off... something, and probably something quite large, given the distances involved. But no readings. Nothing at all.

It all seems so familiar, but Ianto still couldn't say why.

At any rate, Steve insisted that they take some of the equipment up to Camp One, to see if increased proximity would help. And there was no way Ianto was letting Scott and Steve up on their own. And then there was no way Gwen was going to leave Ianto alone with the Londoners. So. He lets her come along.

It'll be good for her to get some experience on the mountain, anyway.

Tenzing and his crew of sherpas (including the two with "gastric," who have recovered enough to be let out of Owen's sight) take the lead, with Scott and Steve behind them. Scott moves slowly; he doesn't seem any healthier today, and Ianto's starting to wonder what it'll take to get him to finally visit the team's doctor. Steve, however, seems to think he's on great form. He keeps unclipping his harness from the rope, trying to get around the pack of sherpas, only to be forced back by Tenzing. Ianto feels a sharp stab of worry as he watches them; he can't tell who's going to get into trouble first.

But he can't worry about it now. He has Gwen to think about.

Fortunately, she's easy to work with. When he tells her to do something, she does it. He keeps the pace slow and steady and she never argues. There's a giddy sort of surrealism about it; here he is, the youngest member of the team, with the least field experience, and he's in charge.

The thought stops him in his tracks, slipping like ice down his spine. _I'm in charge._

Gwen looks at him, puzzled. "All right?" she asks.

He smiles back at her, because it's what Jack would do, and Jack isn't there. He's in charge now. "Perfectly."

It isn't too much longer before they're hauling themselves up to the shelf that will serve them as Camp One. Ianto and Gwen sit on the edge for a moment, legs dangling into empty space, Base Camp small below them. It's probably for the best that Tosh isn't going to ever come up here. She wouldn't like it very much.

"It's a bit brilliant, though, isn't it?" Gwen asks, staring out into the horizon. "I mean, I can't catch my breath and my feet are absolutely killing me and I don't think I've ever been this tired in my whole life, but... it's brilliant, just the same." He tries to push his smile back, and she nudges him with her elbow, laughing lightly. "Admit it, Ianto, you're enjoying it too, sometimes. When you're not babysitting the rest of us."

"Maybe that's the bit I like best," he says, with a shrug.

"Always taking care of us, that's Ianto."

He smiles at her. "Somebody's got to." He's in charge now. "Rest a bit. I'll see if Steve's managed to get any sort of a reading." He pushes up to his feet and walks over to where Steve is standing, staring up at the mountain.

As Ianto gets closer, he realizes that Steve's not only pushed his goggles up onto his head, but he's taken off his gloves, and the skin of his hands is pale, almost bleached with the cold. "You know," Ianto says, trying to keep his voice light, "it's a bit difficult to climb when you've got frostbite."

"Nothing," Steve says, as though talking to himself, as though Ianto isn't even there. "Nothing. I don't understand it." There's an edge of fear in his voice. "I need to get a reading. I need _something_."

"It's there," Ianto says, his voice louder now, trying to get through. "We can see it, can't we? There's nothing to worry about; when we get higher, it'll show up on the scanners."

Steve's hands, still ungloved, tremble around the device he's holding. "Nothing. How can there be nothing? I don't understand. Mr. Saxon _said_..."

Ianto contemplates shaking him, decides against it. They're standing precariously close to the edge of this little shelf, and he's not sure what Steve will do if he's surprised. "It's got some cloaking technology, probably," he says. It's like talking to a sleepwalker. "If it is that powerful, whoever created it doesn't want us getting too close."

"Close." Steve's eyes leave the scanner, track up the mountain. "Closer. I need to be closer." Without warning, he starts scrambling upwards, still with no gloves on, hands slapping in the snow for support.

Without thinking twice, Ianto lunges forward, grabs him by the back of his down suit and pulls him back. Steve struggles, and it's all Ianto can do to keep both of them away from the edge as Steve twists in his grip, shoving him backwards. Ianto can feel the void just behind him; he bends his knees for leverage and pushes forward, back towards the safety of the mountain's face. They stumble together, almost falling, but he manages to force Steve to take a step backwards, then another.

"Ianto," Gwen cries, her boots crunching on the snow.

"Steve!" Scott's voice. His steps join Gwen's, but they're awkward, lurching, and there's a soft thump as someone falls.

Ianto can't look to see who it was; his eyes are locked on Steve's. The other man's gaze is sharp, furious, brown eyes blazing. "Fuck you! Get off me! Get off!" He digs his feet in, tries to shove Ianto away again; Ianto pushes back just as hard, refusing to fall.

Finally, Ianto manages to pin Steve's arms to his side, pushing him against the rock face and holding him there. "Listen to me," he says, very quietly. Steve flails, almost gets free, and Ianto slams him back so hard that his head bounces off the mountain with a sickening crack. " _Listen to me!_ "

"That's enough, Ianto," Gwen says, her hand on his arm, her voice trembling.

Ianto doesn't look at her. He keeps his eyes locked straight on Steve's. "If Harold Saxon had wanted you to get that artifact by yourself, he would have sent you here _by yourself_. He didn't. He gave you a guide, and he selected a team, and he did it for a reason. He knew that if you went after the artifact by yourself, you would fail. Is that really what you want? Do you want him to see you as a failure?"

Steve gives one convulsive shudder, and sags against the rock. For a moment, Ianto is certain that he's gone too far, pushed the man past his breaking point. He loosens his grip, on the verge of apologizing. Then the rage is back in Steve's eyes; he scowls, and tears himself free of Ianto's hands. As he stalks away, he passes Scott, struggling to his feet with help from one of the sherpas. He doesn't say anything, doesn't even look at the man who's supposed to be his partner. Ianto shivers.

Tenzing catches Steve by the shoulder, his face set as stone. "You will go down now," he says, in a voice that brooks no argument. Steve shrugs free of Tenzing as well, and clips onto the fixed rope without a word or a look to anyone.

Ianto catches Tenzing's eye, and nods. "We'll go," he says. "Just... just give me a minute."

"You should be more careful, Mr. Jones," Tenzing says, and Ianto gets the distinct impression that he's not talking about climbing.

Scott is being led off towards the ropes now, the sherpas surprisingly gentle with him. Ianto slumps against the wall and sighs. Gwen looks up at him, her eyes wide, terrified. "What was that, Ianto? What just happened?"

Ianto can only shake his head. "I don't really know, Gwen. Nothing good, I'm afraid." He glances up at the mountain again, its threatening bulk. "Come on. We'd better get back down to Base Camp and tell the others."

Tenzing is still watching them with that stone face as they swing off the ledge, moving back towards safety.

Neither of them says anything on the long climb back down. It's only just hit Ianto that he could have died, that Steve could have killed him. It's still not as frightening as the way Steve just brushed by Scott, his friend, for God's sake. As if nothing else existed. Just the mountain, the artifact, Harold Saxon. It's all slotting into place now, and none of it is at all reassuring.

Finally, they're down. He unclips himself from the ropes, then waits and helps Gwen when she's reached bottom. "Go fetch Owen, yeah? I'll get Tosh. Meet up at... our tent, I suppose."

"Right," Gwen says. She smiles at him, just for a moment, obviously trying to reassure. It's getting to the point, though, where there just isn't any reassurance.

Tosh rushes towards him as he approaches the tent that houses all their comms equipment. "What happened?" she demands, stopping just short of running into him. "Steve burst in, practically threw me out --"

"I'm calling a team meeting," he says, and he's trying to joke, but nothing's funny anymore, either.

Tosh catches his tone and nods, abruptly falling silent. "Right," she says, quietly. Her gloved hand rests on his arm as they walk off together.

Gwen and Owen are already sitting on Owen's sleeping bag when Ianto and Tosh come into the tent, and Gwen has somehow managed to make tea on the tiny camp stove they use as heat. "He tried to fucking kill you?" Owen snaps, half-rising before a coughing spasm stops him. Gwen urges him back down, one hand on Owen's wrist, the other on his shoulder, trying to shush him. He jerks away, his face red. "Jesus, Ianto, I thought you said you weren't going to do anything stupid!"

He takes a deep breath, keeps his composure. "Just... let me explain, Owen, please." He glances at Tosh (she's staring at him, horrified), inclines his head towards his own sleeping bag. "Please, Tosh."

She sits, but she doesn't look happy. "It was Steve, wasn't it? Ianto..."

He sits next to her, and begins tugging his boots off. "He was trying to get a reading off the artifact. Said he couldn't get anything. It was like... like he was in a trance. Then he said he needed to get closer and just... started climbing. No ropes... he didn't even have his gloves on. So I pulled him back."

"And then he tried to shove you off the mountain." Owen's tone is bitter, sharp with half-suppressed fear.

Boots off, Ianto begins to struggle out of his down suit, trying not to elbow Tosh as he does so. "I think he was just trying to get free, at first. He didn't care about me. He just wanted to get to the damned artifact."

"Well," Gwen says, with a nervous half-laugh. "That's not what it looked like to me."

"Do me a favor, Ianto," Owen says. "Next time, let him die if he bloody wants to. There's no point in the only experienced climber here getting thrown off a mountain by that lunatic."

It's clear, from the tone of Owen's voice, that he isn't joking at all. And it's a mark of just how bad things have gotten that neither Gwen nor Tosh protests his callousness. They sit there, silently, for a long time.

When Gwen does speak, she's gone into her PC Cooper mode, gathering the evidence, sorting the facts. "So," she says. "You said it was like Steve was in a trance. So how did it happen? Who put him there?"

"Harold Saxon." Tosh's voice is absolutely firm.

"But..." Gwen shakes her head. "No. Why would he? I don't..."

Her hand taps against her thigh. Rat-a-tat- _tat!_

"We don't know why, yet, but we know how," Ianto says. Tosh looks at him; Owen's eyes are fixed on Gwen's hand, tapping, tapping. "Remember Suzie's friend? Max? Went crazy every time he heard the word 'Torchwood?'"

"He was a bit difficult to forget," Gwen says, peevishly.

"When it happened, Jack had me go through Torchwood One's old records on something called Neuro-Linguistic Programming. We studied it in London. No one's quite sure how it works or how far it goes, but we do know that you can use it to implant subtle psychic triggers. To make someone forget something without retcon, say. Or, perhaps, to make people loyal to you, no matter what. Gwen, look at your hand."

She doesn't even hesitate; her eyes go to her hand, tapping out that rhythm. Rat-a-tat- _tat!_ "It's not just you, Gwen," Ianto continues, quietly. "We've all been doing it. The moment you start to doubt him, or wonder what we're doing here, that rhythm comes up and washes it away." He taps on his own thigh to demonstrate. "Always the same." Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat- _tat!_

"I think it's his voice," Tosh adds. "Because it explains so much. When we came here, we'd been bombarded by him. All over the television, calling us at least once a week. We weren't in a state to question him. But none of us have heard his voice since. Steve, however, has been in almost constant contact with him. That's why he's still so much in thrall."

Owen nods. "'Spose that explains why I agreed to come to the bloody mountains in the first place," he says, his voice quiet, almost apologetic.

Ianto manages a slight, bitter smile. "And why none of us thought it was at all odd that you'd want to go. He fooled all of us, Owen."

Gwen closes her eyes and then takes a deep breath, apparently trying to take it all in, to analyze the data. "That doesn't give us motive," she says, finally. "Why?"

"For one, he needs Britain to trust him, so he can win the election," Tosh says. "Nothing surprising there; the more power he has, the easier it'll be to do whatever he wants to do. The question is what does he want, and what does this artifact have to do with it?"

"And why did he send us to get it?" Ianto adds.

Tosh just shakes her head. "We may not be much, Ianto, but we're the only field-trained team there is. There wasn't even discussion of reopening Torchwood One until seven months ago. He can't turn to UNIT; they answer to the UN, they'd never just hand the artifact over to him. He needs us."

Ianto wants to argue, but he can't; he doesn't have a reason, just an uneasy feeling, and it's not enough, so he holds his silence.

"Which leads us back to the artifact," Gwen says. "What is it, and why does he want it?"

Owen sighs. "Well, we know that it's big, and it's gold, and it's a sphere. Also, it doesn't seem to respond to any of the equipment we have, for what that's worth."

This, Ianto may have an answer for. "We had something big and gold at Torchwood One. The Sphere, we called it. Nearly ended the world with that one. Turns out it was full of Daleks."

"Jack said your boss, Hartman, was obsessed with that thing," Owen says, quietly. "Fixated on it. Wouldn't listen when he said it could be dangerous."

"She _was_ obsessed," Ianto says. "We dropped nearly everything else to work on that. It was all anyone talked about; the Sphere, the ghost shifts. Yvonne Hartman's masterpiece."

"If it is a void ship," Tosh says, finally, and her voice is very quiet, "God only knows what could be inside of it. If it falls into Saxon's hands..."

"It would be the end of everything," Ianto finishes, equally quiet.

Gwen thinks for a few seconds, then nods, as if coming to a decision. "We'll talk to Hillary, make him call off the climb. Whatever this thing is, it's safe here on the mountain."

"No offense, Gwen," Owen says, "but if we turn back, Saxon'll just send someone else up after it, until he gets it down. And I doubt he'll just let us go home."

"It doesn't matter, anyway," Tosh says. "Hillary's been on the phone to London nearly as much as Steve. We can't trust him anymore. The only way is to make sure we take possession of it, try to figure out a way to destroy it before it can be opened."

They all look at Ianto, who clears his throat. Something still feels wrong; something is still missing. But it's obvious that Tosh and Owen are still dead-set on bringing the artifact down, and neither of them are climbers. They need him. "If we're going to make the climb up to get it," Ianto says, keeping his voice very steady, looking at each one in turn, "then we need to focus on the mountain. There's already been problems with altitude sickness, and it's only going to get worse as we get higher. Then there's the snow; we're risking getting caught out in a storm, or hit by an avalanche. There are crevasses. There are a hundred things that could go wrong, and we can't stop Harold Saxon if we've already been killed by the mountain."

"Get to the point, Ianto," Owen says, but without his usual anger.

Ianto has to take a deep breath. "The point, Owen, is this. If I say we need to turn around and go back, we turn around and go back. Even if the others push on. No arguing, no one going off on their own. We stick together, come back to Base Camp, and then sort out what to do from there."

The rest of the team exchanges glances, and he sits quietly, waiting.

Finally, Owen nods. "Right, Teaboy. This is your show."

Tosh gives his arm a squeeze, and Gwen smiles.

"All right," Ianto says. He feels a short burst of terror, but shoves it down and locks it away. He can be scared all he likes later; right now, he needs to focus on keeping his team alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't remember where exactly I acquired the phrase "Disco knee." I kind of remember wanting to use it more prominently, but obviously decided against it. Which was probably for the best.


	4. Crux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crux: (n) The most difficult part of a climb.

**27 September 2008**

The sky is perfectly blue, the sun bright and hot as it reflects off the snow, and the mountain is almost beautiful in the clear light. Ianto isn't fooled. They'll all have blinding headaches by the time they get up to Camp One; they'll all be overheated and exhausted and sunburnt.

All of them, save Tosh.

She lays a hand on his arm, pulling him out of his thoughts. "I'll be fine, Ianto," she says. "Look after the others for me."

Ianto nods. "I promised. And I keep my promises, Tosh."

Tosh looks at him for a bit, then sighs and pulls him into a quick hug. As his arms wrap around her, he feels how small she is, almost doll-like, and it's hard not to clutch at her. "Who protects us, Ianto?" she asks, her voice muffled by the shoulder of his down suit.

He smiles. "We protect each other." And when she pulls away, he lets her go, as hard as it is.

Tosh turns to Gwen, then, lets herself be squeezed. "Christ, I'll miss you," Gwen says. "That big old tent all to myself."

Tosh smiles, but it's a bit brittle and teary. "I know. Me too. I'll have to get Anj Dorje to teach me Nepali or something, just so I have someone to talk to."

"As long as that's all he teaches you," Owen says, clearing his throat. It actually startles a laugh out of Tosh.

The two of them stare at one another for a while, before Owen finally relents. "All right. No soppiness, though," he growls, pulling Tosh into a quick, one-armed hug. "Take care of yourself, girl."

"And you, Owen," she says, her arms wrapped tight around his waist. Just a few seconds, and then they break apart.

"Keep your radio on," Ianto says, resting a hand on her shoulder. Behind Tosh, he can see the Londoners walking towards them, Hillary and the sherpas behind them. "If we're coming down, we'll let you know so you can expect us."

Tosh wipes at her eyes. "All right, Ianto. You do the same. I need to know... I just need to know what's happening."

He manages a smile. "Yes ma'am." His eyes fall on Steve, blank-faced and lost, and he pulls Tosh into one last hug. "If Saxon calls," he whispers, voice urgent, "remember, keep it as short as you can. Don't let him get to you."

"I promise," she whispers back. "I promise." Then she's pulling back, looking at all of them, somehow managing to keep her face composed. "I'll see you when you get back down." Her eyes rest on them for a few seconds longer, before she turns and hurries away.

 _We shouldn't split up_ , Ianto thinks, a bit wildly. _We shouldn't be doing this. We shouldn't..._ Then he forces the fear back into its tidy bundle and shoves it aside. The mountain is what matters now. This is the danger he knows, the one he can respond to. Everything else will have to wait.

Owen is struggling within the hour, his breath coming short and sharp, gasps that echo in the cold, dry air. His cough is worse than ever, harsh and tearing. But he doesn't complain, just keeps his head down, one hand occasionally gripping the rope for support, and Ianto knows better than to fuss over him. He's learned not to underestimate Owen's stubbornness or his pride.

Gwen, apparently, hasn't caught on to that; her hand snatches at Ianto's elbow, snagging his attention. "We're falling behind a bit," she murmurs, nodding at the receding figures of the sherpas above them.

Ianto shakes his head. "It's fine, Gwen. Remember, I've been up here a few times now. I know the way. We won't get lost."

"But..."

Owen has paused, no doubt listening to them. "He can do this, Gwen," Ianto says. Owen straightens up a bit, and when he moves on, his steps are faster. Ianto turns back to Gwen and shrugs, before continuing on himself. Gwen follows him.

*

When they reach Camp One, Owen is coughing badly. Ianto and Gwen follow him to their new tent; neither of them reaches out a hand to Owen to hold him up, but both of them want to. Once inside the tent, Ianto brusquely takes Owen's pack from him, unrolls the insulated foam mat and the sleeping bag, and lays them out as Gwen sets up the propane camp stove. Owen doesn't even glower; just sinks onto the sleeping bag and clumsily peels off his gloves. "Head hurts. Fucking sunlight."

"Bet you never thought you'd miss Cardiff," Gwen says, almost managing to sound cheerful. "Bit of rain might do quite nicely, now."

Owen says nothing, starts tugging at his boots.

Gwen looks at him, sad and worried and disillusioned. "Well," she sighs, at last. "I suppose I'll go see to my own tent, then..."

Ianto doesn't even realize he's going to say it until the words are tumbling out. "You can stay here, if you like. Bit cozy, I guess, but..."

The relief on Gwen's face is almost painful.

Owen sucks in a deep breath. "Ianto, you kinky bugger. And here I thought you cared about me."

"Thank, Ianto," Gwen says, with a genuine smile this time. "I... Thanks."

He manages to smile back at her. "Get yourself settled. I'll go radio Tosh, let her know we're all right."

The wind whips at him as he walks out of the tent, stinging his face. Camp One looks different, full of tents, people moving about. It's not as vast and empty and unsettling as Base Camp, and he feels a pang of gratitude for that even as he feels a stab of guilt over leaving Tosh behind. She's so small, in a sea of empty tents and flat glacier, her only companions two sherpas who barely speak English, nothing to do but watch and wait for them to come back. He pulls out his radio, presses the button. "Jones calling Base Camp."

"Hi, Ianto," Tosh says. She sounds upset, frightened. "Everyone all right?"

"Safe and sound," Ianto assures her. "How is it down there?"

"Dull. Wish I had my laptop."

"It'd probably break in the cold. And I don't think your warranty covers trips to the Himalayas."

"Probably not, but it should." She lets out an unsteady breath. "There was a call for you," she adds. "While you were out."

The fear starts to rise up again, curling around his spine and the base of his ribcage with cold fingers. "Was it my mum? I hope you didn't tell her where I was; she never liked me going out climbing."

Tosh doesn't seem to have the strength to joke anymore. "It was Saxon. He wanted to speak to you. Specifically."

"Ah." He closes his eyes, ignoring the way the fear inches up inside him, nearing his heart.

"I tried to keep the call short, I honestly did, but he kept asking how you were and if you were enjoying the trip and if I were enjoying it and I didn't want to give anything away, so I had to keep pretending, and..."

"Sssh." But he can't soothe her. Not from here. "It's all right, Tosh. I'm sure you did perfectly well. How did he sound?"

Another deep breath. "Normal, really. Like he always does. Just very calm and soothing and sincere..." There's a pause, and when she speaks again, her voice is very quiet. "I kept watching my hand, Ianto. I kept waiting for the tapping to start."

He forces himself to keep his voice calm. "Did it?"

"No."

"Good. I think you'll be all right, Tosh, just as long as you know what we're up against, and not to trust him. Don't let him get to you."

"What if he knows? What if he realizes that we're --"

Now it's Ianto's turn to take a deep breath, and then another. "He's got the election to think of, Tosh. And even if he sends someone else, it'll take them a long time to get here. Try not to worry too much."

"I'm trying," is all she can say, and he can't ask any more of her.

"I won't let anything happen to you, Tosh. I promise you, I won't."

More silence. "Take care of the others, first. I can handle myself."

Ianto allows himself a small smile. "I know you can."

"Anyway. You're exhausted; I can tell it from your voice. Go and eat and drink a lot of water. It's easy to get dehydrated that high up. And make sure the others do, as well, especially Owen."

"I'll look after them. Take care of yourself, Tosh."

"I will." It's amazing, really. It hasn't even been a day, but he already misses her terribly. "Base Camp out."

"Jones out."

The radio crackles once and falls silent. Ianto switches it off, and stares at it for a bit. He looks down at Base Camp, even though he knows he won't be able to see Tosh from here. He looks up at the sky, watches clouds scudding across, white and puffy and innocuous as lambs.

Ianto closes his eyes and lets it all hit him, just for a moment. They're too high up, too soon, too inexperienced; _he's_ too inexperienced, too young, to lead them; they don't know enough about Saxon or what the man really wants or if he's even a man at all; he's not ready for this; he's barely even been in the field before and suddenly he's the one in charge and he's never climbed this high and everyone is looking at him like he knows what he's doing, but he doesn't, he doesn't, and he's so scared. So fucking scared. The fear howls through him like a wild animal, like a fierce wind, and then he bites down hard on the inside corner of his mouth, takes several deep breaths (and oh _God_ , the air is so thin up here), and the fear is compressed, tucked aside. Not gone, not even close, just saved for later.

Tosh is right. They need to eat and drink and rest. He'll worry about that first; then everything else.

*

The tent is overcrowded, Gwen and Ianto and Owen all bundled into their sleeping bags, packed together, their breath turning into hoarfrost on the inside of the tent. But it's warmer with three people, and there's something comforting about being able to hear the others breathe. Maybe they're all gasping like landed fish as they try to cope with the altitude, but they're still breathing.

Ianto closes his eyes and tries to go back to sleep.

He'd feel so much better if Tosh were here.

**28 September 2008**

Ianto picks up another forkful of imitation egg, forces himself to eat it. The eggs taste of fake, and he can't think of the last time he really felt hungry. He's only eating because he knows he has to. And because Gwen is watching.

Owen sips his tea, stares at a table near the door of the tent. Steve and Hillary are sitting together, talking earnestly. Snatches of the conversation brush past Ianto's ears. "The publicity, though... could be tremendous for you... he'll be Prime Minister soon, and..."

Ianto tries to ignore the rhythm of Hillary's tapping on the table, the sound of drums. He feels foggy, half-asleep. The air is so thin up here; it's starting to hit hard. He wonders how long it'll take before his judgement clouds over entirely.

"Still no sign of Scott," Gwen observes.

"Yeah," Owen grunts. "Well, he looked like shit when we started out yesterday. I doubt the change in altitude has done him any favors. This rate, he'll be comatose by Camp Two. If he's lucky."

Gwen stares into her tea. "Are you sure you can't..."

Owen lets out a sharp, irritated sigh. "Gwen, I have tried. Believe me, I have tried. But his bloody bunkmate --" Owen jerks his head in Steve's direction "-- warned me off pretty well the last time, and I'm not inclined to get myself thrown off the damned mountain."

Ianto pushes his plate away, just as Tenzing walks in. The sherpa glances at Hillary once, briefly, then makes his way straight to Ianto's table.

"You should have a bit more," Gwen is saying, her hand on Ianto's wrist, when Tenzing comes up behind her, and she startles.

Tenzing's face is different somehow, softer, lines of worry around the eyes. "You will help with ropes?" he asks, no longer peremptory or harsh. "Please."

"Of course," Ianto says, getting to his feet at once.

Gwen frowns at him, tightening her grip instead of letting go. "You don't have to," she says.

Ianto pulls away as gently as he can. "Yes I do," he says. "I won't be long."

"I bring back fast," Tenzing adds, his voice almost sympathetic. It makes Ianto uneasy. "Fast down. Very safe."

"Right," Owen says, hiding his face behind his mug of tea. "Well. Guess you'd better get going, then."

Gwen watches them with worried eyes as they leave the mess tent. Hillary doesn't look at them once.

Tenzing watches as Ianto gathers his gear and a coil of rope, buckles into his crampons, fastens his harness. Two of the sherpas are with them, and Ianto takes up his position at the end of the pack, but Tenzing shakes his head. "With me," he says. "Please."

The uneasiness gets a bit worse, but Ianto isn't about to argue. "Of course," he says, and takes his new place as second.

At first, they climb up in silence, Tenzing setting the ice screws, Ianto passing the rope. It's steeper here, harder. He'll have to keep an even closer eye on Owen, make sure Gwen stays back, and doesn't push herself too fast. Perhaps he'll take them partway up tomorrow, just to get them used to it...

Tenzing stops abruptly, rests a hand on Ianto's arm, points with the other towards a large outcropping of rock. "You see," he says. "Very sharp at the top. Like a fin." Then he points down, back at the camp. "From here, camp this way. You see?"

This is why Tenzing wanted him. To show him the way home. "I see," Ianto says, quietly.

Tenzing nods, and continues up without another word.

They stop every half-hour or so, always the same routine. Tenzing points out a distinctive landmark, then points back to camp. They're nearly at Camp Two (two deep ledges carved into the mountain; they'll be separated from the sherpas here) when they reach the last one. "You see," Tenzing says, pointing at a small cave, more of a bolt hole in the rock. "Yellow Boots."

Ianto's first thought is that the boots aren't yellow anymore; they've been faded and bleached by exposure to the sun and wind and snow. It's a few seconds before it really sinks in: yes, there are boots, and feet, and legs; there is a corpse in the little bolt hole, half-covered by a bivouac bag, and it's probably been there for several years. It's been there long enough that the sherpas have taken to using it as a landmark.

Gwen will be horrified, of course.

"I see," Ianto says, his voice as calm as always, and after a few moments, they keep climbing.

*

When he gets back to Camp One, Gwen is waiting with a mug of tea. "I talked to Tosh for a bit," Gwen says, and tries to smile at him. "She's having a bit of an emergency. Apparently, she finished off the last of her Sudoku puzzles."

"It's a dangerous addiction, Sudoku," Ianto says. The tea is scalding hot; it burns his lips and spreads fire down his throat. He takes another sip, letting Gwen lead him toward the mess tent.

"Good climb?" Gwen asks, when she can't stand the silence anymore.

"Tricky in spots, but we'll make it, I think. I'd like to take you and Owen up tomorrow if I can; not all the way, just so you're used to it." Another sip, another attempt to banish the chill. It's almost enough, but not quite. "There's a body up there, you know."

"Oh." Gwen stops abruptly, and stares down at the ice at her feet. "No, I didn't know."

Ianto sighs; he probably shouldn't be doing it this way, but he can't think of a better. "It's been there a while, years, probably. I just... I didn't want it to catch you off guard."

She nods. "Thank you." They stand just outside the mess tent. Somewhere across the camp, Tenzing and Hillary are arguing; Ianto can hear the raised voices, but he can't make out the words. The sky is filling up with clouds; it will snow again soon. "Do you know what happened?"

He can only shrug. "Could be anything. Altitude illness, maybe. Or caught out in a storm and unable to make it back to camp. When it snows, when it really snows, you can't see very far, and it's safer to find a hiding place than to risk tumbling down a crevasse and off a cliff. But if you're caught out too long..."

Gwen's eyes meet his, and he knows, now, that she's not going to go wandering off without him again. "You're scared, aren't you, Ianto?"

"I am."

"Me too." She looks away from him, out at the expanse of sky, the sharp place where the ledge ends and the mountain drops away. "Jack never admits it, you know. He never says when he's scared."

Ianto turns away, his stomach dropping. "I'm not Jack."

Gwen's gloved hand cups his cheek. He hasn't shaved since he left Base Camp, and the stubble is already thick. It itches a bit. "Good. Right now, we need Ianto, not Jack."

He's not entirely sure about that, but he smiles anyway. "Thank you."

"Any time. Come on; you need to eat."

The feeling of something half-remembered rises up as they push through the flaps into the mess tent. Owen is there, picking at his synthetic mashed potatoes, and there's something just on the edge of Ianto's brain. Something to do with Jack.

But it refuses to come close enough to name, and after a while, he lets it go, takes the plate of food that Gwen gives him, and forces himself to eat.

**29 September 2008**

They don't climb far, just up for an hour or so, and then back down again. Owen's cough is growing steadily worse, and it's starting to snow again. Ianto feels a bit better, though, for having gotten them through the worst bits of the climb, the technical parts. It'll help.

Afterwards, they sit in the mess tent for a bit, sip tea and pretend to eat. Tenzing comes in and asks Owen to look at an ailing sherpa, and after a moment's bemusement, Owen follows their sirdar out of the tent. Then Scott comes in, mobile in his hand, tears in his eyes, and Gwen goes to offer tea and sympathy. Ianto is once again on his own when Steve approaches. He watches the Londoner sit down, his eyes wary.

"Sorry about the other day, mate," Steve says, and his tone has some of the easiness it possessed back in Pokhara. "You know how it is, though. First big assignment, the pressure gets to you. I wasn't thinking."

It's true enough, Ianto supposes. Someone had been doing the thinking for him, was possibly still doing it. "Just don't try going up by yourself again," he says, with a tight little smile. He can only trust that Steve doesn't know him well enough to recognize the strain in his voice.

And apparently, he doesn't. "You were right. About following Hillary, and all that. He's a good man, really. He understands. How important this is."

"Of course he does," Ianto says. Hillary is lost, then. Ianto'd seen it coming, but it still scares him.

Steve's eyes rest on Gwen, her hand on Scott's arm, leaning in to soothe him. "You've got a good team, you know," Steve says, almost casually. "They'd follow you anywhere."

Ah. So that's where this is going. Ianto says nothing, waits, watches as Steve's fingers start tapping, tapping, restlessly tapping.

"I mean, I did wonder, when I saw you were on the roster for this trip. I don't need to tell you what it's like in London. The archivists stick to the archives, and the field teams handle the messy stuff, and never the twain shall meet. But Mr. Saxon was so insistent that you come, that we'd need your experience." It twitches again, that phantom memory, so close. "He was right, of course. Hillary says you're a hell of a climber. A real natural."

Ianto shrugs. "That may be a bit generous."

"No, it's not." There's something almost sincere in Steve's eyes. "Hillary trusts you. Tenzing trusts you. Mr. Saxon trusts you. Anyway, we're going up to Camp Two day after tomorrow, and I just wanted to make sure you knew, after everything... I trust you too. So... no harm done, no hard feelings?"

"None whatsoever." And it's true, in a way. Ianto doesn't blame Steve for any of this. He's being exploited. Used. It isn't his fault.

"Good. We're going to need you with us, Ianto. All the way."

Ianto can only smile and nod; there's nothing he can say right now that wouldn't be a lie. And that, apparently, is enough for Steve; he's gone without another word about it.

When he's alone again, Ianto sips his tea and tries to figure out what he's missing. It's so close now, so close. Just not quite close enough.

**1 October 2008**

It's been a slow, hard grind up to Camp Two, but in a strange way, Ianto is almost happy. He climbed well. Gwen and Owen climbed well. They're tired but not exhausted, still able to move about, set up the tent, sit in the mess and drink tea.

They're at 22,000 feet and no one has died.

22,000 feet. He never expected to ever go this far or this high. Every childhood dream has just been realized. For just a moment, the circumstances don't matter; he is here and now, and that is enough.

Gwen touches his arm, smiles at him. "What are you so happy for, then?" she asks.

And then Tenzing hurries into the mess tent, and Owen is on his feet, and Ianto is hustling after them, as if his momentary happiness somehow caused everything to go wrong.

"Big Pemba is sick. Breathing very bad," Tenzing says, quickly, leading them down the trail to the sherpas' tents. "Very loud. Then he is coughing blood."

"Shit," Owen says. "Shit."

Night is descending fast upon the mountain, and there are flakes of snow drifting down. It's a bad time for an emergency evacuation.

Hillary is waiting for them in the sherpa's tent, his face stricken in the light of a kerosene lamp as he kneels next to the sick man. No, not a man, a boy, skinny and small, pink foam on his lips as he coughs up blood, his body curled and twisted helplessly on the floor. "We can't get him off to Base Camp like this," Hillary says, no preamble. "If he can get on his feet, even if he's leaning on the other boys, he might be able to get down..."

"Right." Owen is all business, rifling through his pack and pulling out a syringe. He glances up at Ianto, briefly. "Radio Tosh. Tell her we're sending a sick man down to Base Camp. He's got High Altitude Pulmonary Edema, and he'll need to be evacuated to a hospital. She should know where the emergency medical supplies are, but if she doesn't, they're in the mess tent, by the big stove, in the red box. Got all that?"

Ianto nods and hurries out with the radio in his hand. When he switches it on, there's nothing, no noise, nothing. He dials through the frequencies, pops the batteries out of the back, pops them back in. Nothing. The dread in his stomach is a roiling mass, and it's harder to breathe now than it ever was. If they're cut off from Tosh...

The radio crackles and emits a high pitched squeal, and Ianto feels a surge of relief so strong that he almost sobs. "Ianto?"

"Tosh! Can you hear me?"

"-- little -- storm coming -- equipment -- "

He swallows hard. The last thing they need right now is a storm. "Are you all right down there?" he asks, and tries to keep his voice calm and clear.

"All right -- now -- problem?"

Ianto tries to convince himself that the most important bits of the conversation aren't being sucked away by the static. "One of the sherpas is seriously ill. Owen says it's High Altitude Pulmonary Edema. We're going to send him down to Base Camp, but he needs to be evacuated. Can you do that?"

"-- my best -- phone seems to -- "

"Owen says that there are emergency medical supplies in the mess tent, by the big stove, in the red box, if you need them."

"-- know -- put them --"

He's not sure what she's hearing, how much he is missing. He can only pray they're understanding each other. "They're on their way now. Do what you can." Silence. "Tosh? Tosh?"

The radio spits static so loudly that he nearly drops it.

"Tosh! Tosh!"

Dead air.

He stands and lets the snow fall on his face and tries to come to terms with the fact that he cannot rush to Tosh's side to help her. Then the sherpas are half-leading, half-carrying Big Pemba out of his tent, switching on headlamps as they go, each individual snowflake caught in the light for a second, perfect, then tumbling down. Owen gives them another syringe, relays instructions on its use through Tenzing. "In his hip, yeah? And let him lay down for a bit; he won't be on his feet immediately, you have to give him some time. Fuck, I wish we had oxygen. Um... Keep him warm. Tosh'll know what to do."

Owen backs up to stand next to Ianto, and they watch the Sherpas descend, the lights on their helmets bobbing down the mountain like fireflies.

"I've lost radio contact," Ianto confesses. "Tosh said something about a storm, but... there was so much static."

Owen nods, and rocks back on his heels. "D'you know how old that kid is?" he asks. "Sixteen. Sixteen years old. Christ." He coughs; it's taken on a pained edge.

Ianto takes a deep breath, and then another. "We're going back to Base Camp tomorrow," he says.

"We've almost got the artifact," Owen says, and it's not a challenge exactly, more of a statement of fact. "Day after tomorrow at the latest."

Ianto decides it's best to just ignore him. "If we leave early in the morning, we'll be at Base Camp by mid-afternoon. Hopefully, Tosh will have been able to raise a helicopter by then."

Owen rocks back and forth on his heels, back and forth. "It's your call, Ianto," he says. "C'mon, let's go back."

Hillary is standing in the mouth of the boy's tent, looking at nothing, his expression unreadable. Ianto has to wonder how much their guide heard, how much he might repeat. He pushes it out of his mind; it isn't anything he can control.

Instead, he focuses on helping Owen scramble up the narrow, rocky track between the sherpas' camp and their own. It's harder, going up, and Owen stops often to catch his breath, his cough coming more frequently, louder and harsher and more and more pained. When they reach the main camp, Owen is bent double by a violent spasm, and this time, Ianto wraps an arm around Owen's waist to hold him up. Owen's hand clenches on Ianto's shoulder, but doesn't push him away.

"Fuck," Owen says, when he can finally breathe.

"Let's get you into the tent," Ianto says, unable to say any more.

Gwen rushes to them, hovering over Owen's other side, but not touching him. "What's happened? What's going on?"

Ianto closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and fights to keep his patience. "We need to get Owen to the tent."

Much to his surprise, Gwen falls silent, following after them.

Even with the stove lit, the tent is freezing cold. Ianto crouches at Owen's feet, undoing his boots. Owen lays back and presses on his ribcage with the palm of his hand. "Separated ribs," he explains, his voice strangely calm. "Gwen, get into my bag and get out the orange bottle, the one that says 'Codeine' on. There's a love."

"Hurts, then?" Ianto asks, careful to keep his show of concern to a bare minimum.

Owen coughs, and Gwen flinches at the sound. "Like being stabbed. But only when I breathe, so there you are."

Gwen manages to fumble the bottle out and pass it to Owen, along with a cup of hot water. Her eyes rise up to Ianto's, pleading.

He can only nod. "We go down tomorrow. If..." His eyes flick over to Owen, who snorts derisively.

"Worry about yourself, Teaboy. I'm all right."

Privately, Ianto doubts that, but he's not going to say it right now.

"What happened?" Gwen asks, passing another cup to Ianto.

He sits on his own sleeping bag. "One of the sherpas is very sick. We've sent him back down to Base Camp." He sips the water, sighs. "Gwen... We've lost contact with Tosh."

She bites her lip, swallows hard. "Right," she says, quietly. "Well. But we'll be seeing her tomorrow."

In the ensuing silence, Ianto can hear the snowflakes pattering on the canvas of the tent. Faster and faster, a curtain of white drawing down over them, closing them off from everything.

**2 October 2008**

It's pitch black when Ianto pushes his way out of the tent, flicks on his headlamp. He knows that Scott and Steve's tent is only a few yards away from theirs, but he can't see it. Only the white. The wind is picking up, howling as it scrapes the mountain.

Fine. They'll get a later start. It'll clear by daybreak.

Except, of course, that the storm is even worse by daybreak.

Owen is sleeping - it's fitful, but he's sleeping - and Gwen is making instant oatmeal and tea on the camp stove. Ianto watches her, trying to figure out what to do, but his head is killing him; it's hard to think through the pain. The nylon shell of the tent bends and shifts beneath the wind; they've had to put all their clothing on at once just to keep warm.

But the storm will stop. It will stop. It has to.

It doesn't.

*

"We shouldn't be here," Gwen says, laying on top of her sleeping bag. Ianto wonders, vaguely, what time it is. Probably midafternoon. Christ, he hurts. "We should be in Cardiff. We should be home."

Owen coughs for a long time, and Ianto says, "That's enough, Gwen."

But it stirs up something inside of him, that familiar sense of something forgotten, and he finds himself talking again soon. "One of us should be at the Hub. God only knows what could have come out of the Rift. Saxon's well aware of that. He should have had one of us stay back to monitor things."

"Unless the Rift is what he wants," Gwen says, very quietly.

Owen coughs again and sits up slowly, one hand pressed against his side. "Saxon said he wanted all of us to go," he says. "Was quite insistent about it, actually. All four of us needed to be here."

"The last time I talked to Steve, he said..." Ianto closes his eyes. It doesn't slot together nicely, not the way he'd like, but it fits. It fits. "He said that Saxon insisted that I go. That they would need my experience. But Saxon has no idea I know how to climb. It's not on my CV or anything; it's just a hobby. And the way they described the artifact, like it looked like the Sphere... None of you ever saw it. But I did."

"He wanted us to think it was a void ship, something we couldn't just leave on the mountain," Gwen finishes. "But why bring in Scott and Steve? Why hire the guide and the sherpas?"

"So we'd go exactly where he wanted us," Ianto says. "To lead us here before we could figure out what was going on."

"Halfway up a mountain in the middle of nowhere," Owen adds. "Unable to get home in time to do anything to stop him."

Ianto shakes his head, unwilling to allow that line of thought too much traction. "We'll make it back," he says. "We have to."

"I trust you, Ianto," Gwen says, and her voice is soft, almost childlike.

He almost tells her that she's too trusting, but he doesn't. Instead, he listens to Owen's coughing, the rattling of the tent, and tries to remember what it felt like to sleep in his own bed, in his own flat. Or, more comforting than that, the thought of the Hub, the constant dripping sound, the hum of the computers. Safely underground, with no place left to fall, so deep that he could go for days without seeing the weather, without knowing whether or not the sun was shining. Down in Jack's little monastic cell, squeezed tight on that too-small bed, Jack's arms wrapped tight around him. He never thought he'd miss that damp, claustrophobic hole the way he does right now.

Outside the tent, the wind howls, and the snow keeps falling.

**3 October 2008**

The storm has eased up slightly. It will break soon. It has to.

Ianto can't get a signal on the radio. He's got no idea what's happening to Tosh right now, if she's all right, if the sick sherpa is all right, if he even made it down to Base Camp at all. He should never have let the team be split up, not for a second.

It's too late for that now.

Owen's shuffling around the tent with one hand on his ribcage, face pale and pinched, communicating primarily in annoyed grunts. Even Gwen has given up asking him how he is, and has taken to checking her climbing gear over and over again, so she'll be ready the moment Ianto decides it's safe to descend.

The wind has died down, but there's so much snow. It'd be beautiful if Ianto weren't currently 6,700 meters above sea level, unable to breathe and scared out of his mind.

He imagines that, under the circumstances, even Jack would panic a little bit. And Christ knows he isn't Jack. Just the teaboy, that's all. Chief Archivist. General Support Staff. Part-Time Shag.

If any of them survives this, Ianto'll have to put in for a new title. Head Mountaineer, perhaps.

He'd like to stop panicking now. Really, he would. But given the situation, he doubts that's going to happen.

He clears the snow off their tent, and then, for lack of anything better to do, breaks a path to the mess. Scott is still nowhere to be seen, but Steve is standing near the edge of their shelf, staring up and out, looking for that glint of gold. Ianto doesn't say anything to him. Steve wouldn't listen at any rate.

There's tea waiting in the mess tent; it warms Ianto's hands and lips, but it doesn't calm him down the way he'd hoped. He won't be calm until they're back in Cardiff. He might never be calm again.

He sips his tea, and tries to breathe, and sits down next to Hillary. It occurs to him, belatedly, that Hill looks absolutely exhausted.

"D'you think they got Big Pemba down to Base Camp all right?" Hillary asks after a while, staring into his tea.

Ianto thinks of the sick boy, curled up and coughing blood, each breath coming loud and sharp like his lungs were full of broken glass. He wonders, vaguely, why the smallest member of the team always ends up with the nickname "Big." "I'm sure they did," he says, finally, because he doesn't have the heart to tell the truth.

Besides, all he has to do is look at Hillary's face, and he knows that their guide doesn't hold out any more hope than he does. "It's funny, isn't it," Hillary says, watching the steam rise up from his mug of tea. "The whole bloody thing. First I get this call from your Mr. Saxon himself, telling me he needs to set up a trip to Dhaulagiri, everything paid for, no questions asked. That alone should have sent me running for the foothills, but I say yes, of course, whatever you want, Sir. Then you lot show up, and you're the only one's ever climbed anything, and I've gotten some sad blokes up mountains in my time, but ... And I don't even question it. No team doctor. No Base Camp Manager. All right, this isn't Everest, but with a bunch of complete slappers, you'd think I'd have asked for more. A couple of other guides to help out, at the very least. But I don't.

"And I ought to be teaching you lot to climb, and instead I'm on the phone, and Tenzing's trying to keep the sherpas organized, and that leaves you, lad, to do all the instruction. And then we get to the glacier, and I'm putting that bloke Steve's crampons on his feet for him, because he doesn't know how to do it for himself. And there's no other teams here, so there's no one we can turn to for help if things go wrong; it's just us alone on this damned mountain. I'm not sticking to my acclimatization schedule as I ought to, because I'm in such a damned hurry to find out whatever it is you lot are looking for. Everything that I know I ought to do, everything that ought to scare the shit out of me, and all I can say is 'Yes, Sir,' when that Mr. Saxon calls. And do what I'm told. Christ, he's nothing to do with me! He's not my government; I never voted for him. And yet here I am, letting him run the climb. And now there's a boy dead because of me. Probably more than one."

Ianto swallows hard. "Then turn around, Hillary. Turn around before anyone else dies."

Hillary lets out a short bitter laugh. "But I can't, lad. Those nutters from London aren't turning back now, not this close, and I'm a shit guide if I let them go up there on their own. They won't last ten minutes. You've seen them climb. You know how it is."

"Then that's their decision," Ianto says.

"But it's not, lad," Hillary says. "I'm not faulting your turning around. You're responsible for keeping your team alive; that's your job, and you're doing it, and good on you for that. But my job is to save those idiots from themselves. And I have to do it. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a shit guide."

There isn't anything left for Ianto to say.

Hillary stands up, rests a hand on Ianto's shoulder for a second, a warm and welcome pressure. "Take care of your team, lad," Hillary says. "Get 'em down safe." And then he's walking out of the mess tent, leaving Ianto to clutch his cooling tea in both hands and wonder when he'll stop panicking enough to know what he's doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Who protects us?" is a callback to "Countrycide." The bit about the eggs "tast[ing] of fake" came directly from a comment made by my beta for this fic, Seize. "Yellow Boots" is a reference to Green Boots, a climber who died on Everest and whose body was used as a landmark for many years -- please note that searching "Green Boots" on google will absolutely give you pictures of a man's dead body.


	5. Belay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Belay: (v) To protect a climber from falling by using rope, friction, and an anchor.

**4 October 2008**

The storm broke at around midnight, and the sky is clear now, the stars bright and brittle overhead. Owen is shaking and shivering and coughing; Gwen is holding his hand.

The snow is probably thigh-deep in places, and Ianto's got everyone's gear on his own back. It doesn't matter now. He'll get them down safely. He has to.

Hillary, the sherpas, and the men from London have gathered for the final push up to the artifact. In the light of Ianto's headlamp, Hillary looks resigned, Tenzing grim and stoic. Steve's eyes glitter madly. Scott's face is pale and his eyes are unfocused.

"Come with us," Ianto says, one last time. "Please. It isn't safe."

Steve only turns away. Scott wets his lips, shakes his head. "I'm sorry," he says, and his voice is already slurred. "I can't..."

"Think of your girl," Gwen says softly. "Think of your Linda. Don't you want to see her again?"

Scott lets out a short, pained laugh. "You really don't understand, do you?" he asks. "I am thinking of Linda," he says. "This is for her. To keep her safe."

"If Saxon's threatened her..." Gwen says. "We can help. We can --"

"You don't understand," Scott says, and turns away.

"Please," Gwen says, and Ianto lays a hand on her shoulder. She falls silent.

Ianto nods at Hillary and Tenzing. "We'll meet you back at Base Camp," he says, even though he doesn't believe it for a second.

Hillary raises his hand and Tenzing nods back.

"Come on," Ianto says, and ushers his team towards the fixed ropes leading down the mountain. He isn't surprised to find that they're completely buried in the snow. In the distance, he can hear the soft _ksssssh-shusssshhhh_ hissing as snow breaks loose from the mountain and tumbles down, small avalanches everywhere.

He isn't frightened. There just isn't room for it right now.

He pulls a coil of rope from his pack, ties an end of it to Gwen's harness, the tightest, strongest knot he knows. Owen is next. "We'll have to rope together right now, and hope that the fixed ropes are clear further down. I'll go first and set the trail. All you have to do is follow me. All right?"

Gwen nods, and after a moment, Owen does, too.

Ianto stares down the slope for a moment, searching. He sees a boulder he recognizes, one just above Yellow Boots' hollow. "Right. Here we go, then."

All around him, he can hear small avalanches sweeping down the mountain's flank. Owen puffs for air. There's chatter from above as Hillary ushers the rest of the team up and up, towards their precious artifact.

Ianto doesn't look back. He keeps his eyes focused on the trail going down, back to Base Camp, and safety, and home.

Their pace is necessarily slow, more for Ianto's sake than for Owen's this time around. He's breaking trail through snow that laps up his calves, up to his thighs in some points, and it's tiring work. He gasps for air with every step, the cold burning his throat and lungs. But a curious calm has swept over him, and he embraces it, lets it carry him along. Even when avalanches sweep the slope bare just a few yards away from where they're climbing, there's nothing, no emotion. He waits for the swirling, blowing snow to settle on the slopes, then finds the next landmark and sets a course towards it. It's four breaths for every step now, sometimes five or even six, but it doesn't matter. It's taking them as long to hike down as it did to climb up. That doesn't matter either.

He'll do everything in his power to keep them safe. It's all he can control. The rest is up to the mountain.

They're at the technical sections just above Camp One, carefully cramponing their way down a nearly vertical slope, when Owen fails to get his points in all the way. Ianto sees him scrabbling for purchase, sees that he won't make it, and slams the pick of his ice axe into the slope, wrapping the rope around it, around his shoulders and arms. His body curls, knees pressing into the slope as he twists to the side. "Gwen! Owen's falling!" Then Owen slides past, his crampons slicing into the shoulder of Ianto's down suit and spilling feathers everywhere, white on white on the snow, and Gwen is being dragged down with him, and there's nothing Ianto can do but hold on.

The rope goes taut, stretching just enough, and Ianto feels a heavy weight pulling at him, but he's got his ice axe well planted, and he holds on. "Owen!" he shouts. "Gwen!"

"I'm all right," Gwen pants. "I've stopped." Ianto glances back over his shoulder, and sees Gwen's axe planted in the slope, holding her up several feet below him. "I'm all right. Owen, love?"

Owen coughs and coughs, and Ianto takes a deep breath, because if Owen's coughing, it means he's still alive. "Banged up a bit," Owen says, finally, his voice an exhausted croak. "Can't seem to get my footing."

Ianto closes his eyes. "Right. Gwen, can you get down and help him?"

"Yes," she says, no hesitation.

"All right," Ianto says. "Take it slowly. I've got you."

"I know," Gwen says.

He holds on as tight as he can, the rope cutting into his shoulders, a stripe of cold fire down his upper arm where Owen's crampons grazed him. He listens to Gwen's steps crunching into the slope, solid and firm, and ignores the pain in his shoulders, the way his hands are going numb. Finally, the rope goes slack. "Christ," Owen rasps, his voice little more than an exhausted wheeze. "Bloody harness is murder on the bollocks."

Ianto's shoulders shake, but he isn't sure if he's laughing or not.

"Ianto?" Gwen asks.

"Fine." The word is breathed into the ice, nothing more. "Let's keep going." He begins to descend again, slow and careful.

Gwen's found a small ledge, just enough for all three of them to stand on, leaning against the mountain. Owen's face is badly scraped from his fall, but the damage looks superficial. He's hunched over slightly, obviously in pain, one hand clutching at his separated ribs. The real concern, however, is his gloves. He's lost them. Ianto's eyebrow quirks upward, and his eyes meet Owen's.

Owen shakes his head. "Nuh-uh." His voice is weak, pained, exhausted. "You _need_ those gloves."

"So do you." Ianto plants his ice axe in the slope again and begins to pull his gloves off. "You're the doctor. We'll need your hands."

"And you're the sodding climber, and we'll need _your_ hands," Owen growls back.

Ianto looks at Owen a bit longer, then pulls the thin liners out of his gloves. "Fine." He hands the gloves to Owen, and pulls the liners back on. "It won't be comfortable, but it'll do 'til we're at Camp One."

Owen doesn't look satisfied, doesn't move, and finally Gwen takes his hands and puts the gloves on him herself. "Stupid stubborn git," she mutters.

Ianto takes the opportunity to look down again. There's the fin of rock that Tenzing pointed out to him days ago, and not far beneath it, Camp One. And there's something else as well. A few hundred yards from Camp One, something bright green protruding from a snow drift.

He swallows hard, and glances back at his team. "Right. Shall we keep going?"

They look at each other for a few more seconds, the space of a deep breath, and then Ianto carefully leads them over the side of the ledge and down.

Twenty minutes of very careful climbing sees them finally at the remains of Camp One. Some of the tents have been flattened by the wind and snow, or shredded. Some are simply gone. Ianto looks up and over at the fin of rock, and sees the blaze of bright green. He already knows that it's someone in a down suit. He just doesn't know who they are, if they're alive, and if he can save them if they are.

He unclips from the rope that's bound him to Owen and Gwen, pulls the overloaded pack off his back, and begins rummaging through it. Every movement brings a stinging tug in his upper arm; there's no doubt that Owen's crampons cut straight through the down suit and into Ianto's flesh, and now the blood is sticking to the pile long underwear he's got on underneath, perhaps frozen there. But he isn't bleeding to death, so he'll deal with it later.

His hands close on a small first aid kit; antiseptic wipes, gauze, medical tape. He passes them over to Gwen. "Take care of Owen," he says. "I'll be right back."

Gwen's fingers close over his and don't let go. "Where are you going?" she asks, her voice only a bit shaky.

Ianto glances at the green speck on the mountainside again. "I just need to check on something. I won't be long, I promise."

When he looks back at Owen and Gwen, they've seen the body too. Gwen looks pale, and Owen's jaw is set and tight. "Be careful," Owen says, quietly.

"I always am," Ianto replies, but he cannot manage a smile. He gives Gwen's shoulder a squeeze, trying to reassure her, and then sets off, climbing up a small shoulder of rock before setting off on the traverse, that bit of green always just at the corner of his eye.

Some of the sherpas had green down suits, he remembers.

He keeps moving.

The wind lashes at him, numbing his hands in their thin protection, making his fingers feel clumsy and huge. It's difficult to get a good footing in the dry, powdery snow, and he's been panting for breath for so long that his lungs are starting to feel scorched, his throat frozen.

He keeps moving.

There are two bodies, he realizes at last. Two bodies curled in an alcove in the rock, the larger wrapped around the smaller, apparently in a last ditch effort to provide protection from the storm. The large one is in green, the small one is in purple. Their faces are towards the mountains, their backs to the wind, a pack within easy reach of their hands, an empty water bottle on the ledge near them.

They are so still that they cannot be anything but dead.

"Hey!" Ianto shouts, hoping for some sort of startle reflex, hoping to be wrong, even though he knows that if they're still alive, they're far past saving. "You there! Hello! Hello!" They don't move.

He pulls himself into their little hollow, shakes their boots, shouts at them. "Hey! Hey! If you can hear me, move your hands!" When he turns the man in the green suit onto his back, the body goes stiffly, as if frozen into place. Even though he already knows, Ianto keeps trying, stripping off one glove liner to press his fingers to the man's throat, checking for a pulse. The man's skin looks perfectly ordinary, but it's hard, almost like marble, and so cold. There's a thick layer of ice over the man's face; Ianto carefully chips it away with his stiff, unwieldy fingers.

It's one of the sherpas who evacuated Big Pemba. Ianto can't be sure, but he thinks the man's name was Jamling. His eyes are closed, mercifully enough. He could almost be asleep. But he isn't.

If the man in green is Jamling, then the smaller figure, the one in purple...

Ianto goes through his routine again, checking for pulse, chipping the ice away, occasionally stopping to put his hands inside his down suit and warm them up. The sun is rising in the sky by the time Big Pemba's face is uncovered, frozen into a pained grimace. There's no pretending that the boy is only sleeping, not with this. He died. They both died.

He sits with them for a few minutes, in the little shelter they created, their last-ditch bivouac. He doesn't know what happened, but he can guess. Big Pemba collapsed and couldn't be moved. Jamling stayed with him. The third member of their group continued downwards, to Tosh, to get help from the sherpas still waiting at Base Camp. But help never came.

They died.

At least they had each other. At least they weren't alone. It isn't really comforting, but it's all Ianto has.

After a moment's hesitation, he pulls the gloves from Jamling's hands, takes off his own glove liners and stows them in his pockets to give to Owen. Jamling's gloves are cold from two nights in the open on dead hands, but they'll warm.

Owen's right. Ianto needs his hands to get them off the mountain and to safety.

There ought to be an apology for this, for what happened to them, for what Ianto has had to do. But there isn't. He shifts Jamling and Big Pemba, rearranging their frozen limbs until they're laying as he found them, faces turned towards the rock, bodies curled together. Then he pats Jamling's leg, shakes his head, and leaves them to their rest.

His hands are already warmer.

Ianto makes his way back to Camp One, careful step by careful step. Owen and Gwen are there, waiting for him. Owen's face is bandaged, and Gwen is biting her lip. They don't ask him where he went or why. They don't wonder where he got the gloves on his hands. They don't say anything when he gives Owen his own glove liners.

Instead, Gwen hands Ianto a bottle of water. He takes a long pull, the water easing the pain in his throat, then hands it back to her. He closes up his pack, struggles into it, then ropes them all together and leads them down again.

Half an hour later, he hears Owen's voice from above. "Was it just the one body, then?"

Ianto makes sure he's got a good footing when he stops, panting for breath. "No," he says, his voice rough and scratchy. "Two."

"Ah." Owen's tone is almost conversational. Probably he's in shock. Probably they're all in shock. The sun is blazing merrily away, making the slope unstable, the hissing of minor avalanches coming louder, more frequently. They've been lucky so far, but they need to get to safety soon. "Because there's three more, just to the left there."

Ianto doesn't want to look, but he does anyway. He sees a tangle of limbs in colorful down suits, neon green and orange and yellow, bright against the snow. He draws in a deep breath. "Hey!" The effort of shouting tears at his throat, and there's no answering movement. Not even a twitch.

"Tosh was wearing pink," Gwen says, sounding a bit dazed.

Owen takes a few sideways steps, stops when a small torrent of snow cascades from under his foot. "They could still be alive," he says, as if trying to convince himself to move a just a little further.

"They've been there for a while," Ianto points out, his own voice so calm, too calm really. "One night at least, maybe more." But he starts climbing back up anyway, even though the snow is increasingly precarious. " _Hey!_ " he shouts again. No movement, no answering groans.

Owen takes another step, and almost loses his balance, clinging to a small spur of rock for support. "No good," he says, shuffling back to the path Ianto has made for them. "I can't get over there."

Ianto closes his eyes, does a quick risk assessment. "We have to leave them," he says, finally.

Neither Gwen nor Owen argue. They resume their descent, leaving the dead (or dying... no, he can't think like that, not now; he has to think of the team) behind them.

The slope grows gentler, then gentler still. They crawl down slowly, crippled by exhaustion, pausing frequently to catch their breath but never really stopping. None of them say anything. The less attention Ianto has to pay to climbing, the more energy he has to think about it. There are five dead bodies on the slopes of Dhaulagiri. Two sherpas had been left behind to help Tosh maintain Base Camp. Two more were sent down with Big Pemba. If Tosh is still at Base Camp, she's alone. She's been alone for two days.

It's too much to think about, and Ianto feels his mind turn away from it, back to the climb.

Finally, they come around the last large outcropping, and see a small figure in pink waiting for them on the flat ground of Base Camp. Ianto's heart gives a painful lurch, and he imagines that if he had the strength left, he'd run, but he can't. He plods on at the same painful pace, his thighs burning with strain, his lungs scorched and aching, his pulse hammering through him. Step after step after step, and then he's gone as far down as he can, and his eyes are filled with pink, black hair brushing against his face, Tosh clutching at him so hard he wonders if she could break him. She's very strong, Tosh is, stronger than he'd thought. And she's crying; her tears are wet and hot and burning on his cheek.

It takes him a few moments to remember how to lift his arms, to hug her back.

"God, I was so scared," she sobs, clinging even tighter, and he manages a slight squeeze. "I was so scared."

_Me too_ , he thinks, and says aloud "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

She finally lets go, and he stumbles; she catches his arm to put him back on his feet. "You look exhausted," she says, wiping her eyes with her hands. "Owen! What happened?"

"I took a tumble," Owen says, as Tosh flies to him, her gloved hands gently touching the gauze covering his face. "It's all right, Tosh, really."

Numb, moving on automatic, Ianto strips his stolen gloves off and begins untying them from the rope that bound them together: first himself, then Owen, then Gwen. Beneath the ice that's frozen his insides, he can feel the stirrings of loss, too enormous to comprehend. Bodies -- no, people, people he _knew_ \-- on the slopes of Dhaulagiri.

"The others aren't coming with you," Tosh says, finally. It isn't a question, but Ianto answers as though it were.

"No. Steve and Scott..." He pauses, gropes for words, finds none. "And Hillary wasn't going to let them go alone. He's a good guide."

Gwen is standing a little away from them, looking up. "You can just see them," she says, pointing. And there they are, visible on the mountain's face, small dots, brightly colored. One small bunch, gathered not far from Camp Two, not really moving. Three more, scattered wide, almost touching the bronze-gold gleam of the artifact.

Ianto's heart stops for a few seconds, then begins to pound, hammering loud and fast like a drumbeat, like a warning. "Move," he croaks, his voice aching and unfamiliar.

None of them budges.

He'd shout, but his throat is too frozen. "Move!" he says again, plucking at Owen's sleeve, and they're moving, unable to do much more than stagger along, tripping over their own feet. There's a short, sharp report, like a gunshot, and Ianto's legs go out from under him, his wounded shoulder connecting with the hard ice first, sending a blaze of pain through him, making him cry out. Someone tumbles on top of him, arms spread out as if to protect him.

"The artifact," Tosh says, breathless, her voice still shaking with tears.

There's a rumble and roar like a tidal wave, as if half the mountain has broken away. Ianto pushes up, expecting to see death sweeping down over them, and the arms around him tighten. It's Gwen, pressed against him; Owen and Tosh crouch nearby, Owen coughing convulsively as they watch a wall of snow sweep with lethal speed and strength down the slope, crushing the eastern half of the camp, leaving them untouched, huddled together.

The last of his strength burnt up, Ianto's arms give out, and he collapses face first on the ground.

"Shit," Owen says, rather eloquently. "Gwen, get off the poor bastard, yeah?"

Then surprisingly gentle hands are pulling him up, tugging the pack off his shoulders, and he hisses as the strap goes down his injured arm. "He's bleeding," Gwen says.

Tosh grunts. "Christ, what's in this pack?"

"Stubborn Welsh bastard," Owen says, helping Gwen lift Ianto into a kneeling position. His snow goggles are pulled off, and Owen's face fills Ianto's vision. Fingers pry Ianto's eyes wide open, Owen peering at him intently. "Wouldn't let us carry anything." Owen draws back, raising an arm to his face to muffle a coughing spasm. When it's done, he takes a shaky breath and admits, "Granted, I'm in shit shape at this point, but still."

Tosh pulls the pack onto her own back with surprising ease. She folds her arms and looks down at them, Gwen holding Ianto up, Owen with one hand clutching his side, still coughing slightly. "I think the mess tent is still standing," she says, after a few seconds, and reaches out a hand to pull Owen to his feet.

Gwen tries to pick Ianto up, and he tries to stand, but it isn't working. Then Tosh is pulling Ianto's arm around her shoulders, and even with the pack, she's able to help Gwen get him to his feet. He stands for a moment, legs wobbly, head spinning with a thousand things, and looks back up at the face of Dhaulagiri. There's no more bronze glint, no more brightly colored specks crawling around. Just a few patches of white where the snow still clings, and lots of black, ice-covered rock. "They were all up there," he says, very quietly.

He can feel Tosh's shoulders rise and fall under his arm, as she takes a deep breath. "There's nothing you can do anymore," she says, quietly. Then she and Gwen are dragging him towards the mess tent, and he can only stumble along between them.

In the tent, Ianto is dumped unceremoniously on a bench, his body seemingly beyond his control, and all he can think is that when you see an avalanche, you're supposed to start the rescue immediately, but he can't make his arms or legs work. Owen collapses across from him, coughing, coughing, and Gwen is practically grey with exhaustion. There's no one else to call. There _is_ no one else. Just them.

Tosh kneels at his feet and strips his crampons off, then his boots. Her hands are barely shaking.

"I'm sorry, Tosh," he says again, although he isn't exactly sure why.

She looks at him, brushes a strand of black hair out of her eyes. "Don't be," she says, and her voice is very crisp now, very businesslike, as it always is when she's suppressing strong emotions. "You brought them back. Lean on me, now." He rests his forearms on her shoulders and lets her unzip his down suit, lets her manipulate his useless limbs, one arm around his waist as she pulls his arms from the sleeves, pushes the suit down his torso, sits him back down on the bench and tugs the suit off his legs.

He lets out a hiss as her hands find the long cut Owen's crampons left on his arm, gently teasing the blood-soaked fabric of his long underwear away from the skin. "That's going to need stitches," she says.

Gwen disappears from Ianto's line of sight, reappears moments later with a bowl of water and a washcloth. "You're prepared," Gwen says, quietly.

"I was expecting casualties; I just didn't know who they'd be," Tosh replies. She pulls Ianto's top off, trying to be gentle, but the fabric is stuck to his skin, and he flinches when she yanks it free. Then Tosh is looking at him, looking hard, and she shakes her head. "You've got thin," she says, at last.

"So have you," Ianto replies, and he isn't lying. Tosh's cheekbones protrude more than ever, and her jaw is very sharp.

Tosh manages a smile. "You never had any to spare." The cloth dabs at his arm, warm and wet and soothing, wiping away the blood. "Keep this up and you'll look like Owen."

"I'm still in the room, you know," Owen protests, feebly, then coughs for a long time. "And I'm _wiry_."

"You're a skinny bastard," Ianto says, as though Owen's voice isn't shaking, as though this were completely normal. Gwen hands Tosh a long, curved needle, and Ianto closes his eyes. "And really, Tosh should be fussing over you, not me." He bites the inside corner of his lip and holds absolutely still as the needle goes in, the thread pulling through his skin, pulling tight.

"And I'm a doctor, and can say with absolute certainty that you need the fussing more than I do right now, so let the woman work," Owen says.

Ianto wants to say something more, but all his cleverness has gone away. The needle goes in and out, and the thread pulls through, tightening, pulling him together again. He doesn't move as he's stitched up; doesn't open his eyes until Tosh strokes the cloth down his arm and says, "There. All done." She musters another smile for him, then turns to Owen.

Gwen is carefully peeling the bandages away from Owen's face, and he isn't even swearing at her, though it must hurt like hell. The scrapes are sticky and raw-looking; Owen wasn't exactly pretty before, but he looks dreadful now. Tosh crosses to them, swats Gwen's hands away gently. "Sit down. You look exhausted."

"I am," Gwen admits, but crosses over to the stove instead, and busies herself making tea.

Ianto forces himself to sit up a bit, move his arms and legs, attempt to get comfortable although comfort seems impossible at the moment. Everything hurts; every muscle burns; his thighs ache from breaking trail through the snow; his shoulders are strained from the impromptu self-arrest he performed when Owen fell; the small of his back complains of the too-heavy pack he forced himself to carry. He doesn't mind; every twinge and sting distracts from the hollow agony of bodies on the mountain. So many. "We found the sherpas," he says at last. "I'm sorry, Tosh."

Her back stiffens slightly, but she doesn't stop picking bits of scree from Owen's face. "It was snowing so hard," she says, her voice still firm. "But I had to let them try. I knew by morning that they weren't ever going to come down."

Two days alone at Base Camp, no word from any of them, alone with the blizzard howling around her. Ianto tries to imagine it, but his mind just turns away. "I'm sorry," he says again.

Tosh turns and looks at him, one eyebrow up, her face almost daunting. "Ianto," she says, sternly. "Stop apologizing."

Gwen emerges from behind the stove with mugs of tea; she hands one to Ianto and another to Owen, and sets Tosh's near her, but not so near that Tosh could knock it down. Her own mug clutched in both hands, like a child's, she stares into the steam. "It blew up. The artifact blew up."

"That looks to be about the size of it, yeah," Owen says, but he can't quite manage the nonchalant tone he's striving for.

"It was a trap. Saxon meant to kill us," Gwen says. "Why?"

Ianto manages to lift the mug to his lips, cherishes the warmth of it. "No idea. We'll have to ask him when we get back."

It's hitting him, though, really hitting him. They were meant to die. Thirteen people _are_ dead, dead or at least dying. Nothing he could do to save them, nothing he could do to stop it happening. Jamling's body curled around Big Pemba's, the two of them freezing to death on the mountain, exposed to the storm, no hope of rescue...

"We can't stay here," Gwen says, as Tosh smooths a new bandage over Owen's battered face. "What if he finds out? He'll be looking for us."

Tosh pulls away from Owen, picks up her mug of tea, curls her fingers around it. "Sit down, Gwen. We can't go anywhere right now. The three of you need to rest."

"But --" Gwen's starting to look a bit panicky, her eyes going huge, her hands shaking.

"Sit down, Gwen," Ianto says, and much to his surprise, she does so, collapsing next to him. "Tosh is right. We're in no fit state to go anywhere."

" _You're_ in no fit state to go anywhere," Owen says, an undertone of worry apparent in his voice.

Ianto raises his eyebrow. "Neither are you."

Owen touches his face, then lets his hand drift down to his ribs. "Fair point."

"We have to rest. We have to reorganize. If we panic now..." Ianto shakes his head.

Tosh frowns at all of them equally, her arms folded. "Food first," she says, decisively. "Then the three of you are going to get some sleep. No arguing."

"We're in your hands," Owen says, and closes his eyes.

**5 October 2008**

Ianto can only stand and stare at the enormous mound of fresh snow that's buried the eastern side of Base Camp. There's no way they'll be able to get to anything underneath it. All of their comm equipment, all the tech they brought with them, most of their supplies... all gone.

Nor will they be able to cross the snow, to find the path that brought them here. They'll have to find another way home.

Ianto spots a tiny bit of gold, picks it up. It's plastic. Harold Saxon's mysterious artifact, the one they flew halfway around the world for, the one they got so obsessed with, the one that so many people _died_ for... Cheap plastic. Like a child's toy. A shiny trinket to lure them in close enough to be killed.

It doesn't make sense, and Ianto wonders if he'll ever understand any of it. He wouldn't mind the chance to ask why, though. He wouldn't mind a chance to get his hands on Harold Saxon and get an explanation, something, anything, any reason why thirteen people had to die.

Not far from the bit of gold plastic is a scrap of fabric. Red fabric. Probably from Steve's down suit. Steve would have been nearest to the artifact, of course, the first to touch it. Steve was Saxon's creature, through and through. He never had a chance to say no. Ianto wonders absently what Steve might have been like in his real life, if he'd had a family, a girlfriend or a boyfriend, any children. He wasn't any older than the rest of them; probably his parents are still alive. Probably they'll mourn him now that he's gone.

Ianto's gaze skims the surface of the snow. It's clean, white, unblemished, like a shroud. Who was with Steve at that last moment? Not Scott, of course. Ianto remembers the small clump of people motionless on the face of the mountain, remembers Scott's slurred speech and Owen's dire predictions. At some point during the climb, Scott must have collapsed for good. Steve stepped over him and kept going, dragging some of the sherpas with him. Tenzing would have stayed behind. Hillary would have, too. They would have tried to keep Scott alive.

They were probably still trying when the mountain fell on top of them.

Ianto's eyes blur with tears, and he blinks them away.

Then there's someone next to him, a small someone in a pink down suit. Her arm slips around his waist, and he leans on her a little bit, because he knows how strong she is now. "The first rule of avalanche rescue is that you don't wait," he says, trying to keep his voice from shaking. "There's a 92% chance of survival if you can pull them out within fifteen minutes. After half an hour it's down to 30%. After two hours..."

Tosh squeezes him a little bit tighter. "There wasn't anything you could have done. Even if you'd had the strength, you'd never have gotten to them in time."

"We should never have come here," he says, quietly.

Tosh turns him round to face her, pulls his face down so he can't look away from her eyes. "But we are here, Ianto," she says. "And we need you to get us home. You _promised_."

She's right. Of course she's right. So he forces the grief and the guilt and the terror back down, and manages a shaky smile. "And I keep my promises, Tosh."

It earns him a smile back, a smile that's enough to keep him going for another day at least. "I know you do." Tosh pulls him down to kiss his forehead, then takes his arm and leads him back to the mess tent.

*

That night, Ianto gets out his stack of trekking maps, the souvenirs he grabbed in Pokhara, long before any of them knew what they were getting into. They're cheap and flimsy, but they're still maps. He sorts through them, finally pulling one out that says "Dhaulagiri Circuit." There's a path marked on it, a path that might just get them home after all. Out to the west, down the glacier’s other edge and through Italian Base Camp, roughly following the line of the river.

Ianto traces the path with his finger. There aren't any nearby villages. The nearest, a dot on the map labelled "Muri," has to be at least four or five days' journey away. Everything before that is probably wild country, faint trails. It’s been years since Ianto’s had to navigate through unknown territory, and he’s never had to do it in quite these circumstances, but there isn’t any choice.

It’s funny, really. All that alien tech back at the Hub, guns and organic computers and a sodding pterodactyl, and right now, they’re forced to rely on a compass and a cheap map. Soon they’ll be starting fires by rubbing two sticks together and making tools out of bits of stone.

Ianto drops his head and takes a few deep breaths, because he knows he’s getting hysterical again, and he really doesn’t have the time for that sort of nonsense. Tosh is right; like it or not, it’s up to him to get them back to safety.

He breathes and breathes until finally, he can concentrate on the map again, tracing the route with his fingers. The good news is that from now on, they’ll be moving down and not up. There isn’t any need to acclimatize, so they can walk for longer. They can walk for as long as their feet will carry them.

But they've spent weeks in the mountains, suffering the effects of high altitude. He's not sure they have the strength left for a long trek And with Owen's cough to think about, the pain that's still plaguing him....

Then, too, there isn’t much food, nor is there much fuel. Maybe a week’s worth, maybe less. Nor can they be sure if there are many water sources along the route.

But if there are any, Ianto's still got his water purification tablets. That has to count for something.

If they stick to one tent, it’ll free up room to carry other things, medicine, food, more water, fuel. Their combined body heat might allow them to conserve the stove for cooking and boiling water. It’ll be a tight fit, but right now, he’s not sure any of them are in a mood to complain.

He looks up from his map, sees the tangle of sleeping bags in the center of the tent, the way the others have crowded together in their sleep, seeking warmth and comfort. No, he doesn’t think any of them are going to complain at all about being cozy.

Ianto folds the map up and sighs. He doesn’t feel prepared at all for this, but staring at the map isn’t going to help him, and he needs the sleep. They start moving tomorrow. Away from the mountain, back towards home. _Home_.

He pulls his sleeping bag a little bit closer to Gwen’s, snuggles in, and tries to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is, obviously, a very literal belay in this chapter, hence the title. According to endnotes on the fic, I was also inspired by Pete Schoening's actions on K2 in 1953, when he saved (nearly -- RIP Art Gilkey) his entire expedition, an event referred to in mountaineering histories as, simple, "The Belay."


	6. Runout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Runout: (n) An uncomfortably long and often dangerous distance between two points of protection.

**6 October 2008**

It’s a sad and bedraggled lot that trudges through the snow and away from Dhaulagiri Base Camp. They’re thin and tired, sunburnt, scraped, dirty. Exhausted.

But they aren’t dead yet, and that’s enough to go on for now.

It’s snowing again, but only lightly, only enough to remind Ianto that they haven’t got much time to get out of the mountains and down to warmer country. Another heavy snowfall, and they’d be trapped for good, nothing to do but die. He's got to keep them moving.

It’s still difficult for Ianto to comprehend, to know completely that it’s just the four of them left. Every time he looks up, he half-expects to see Hillary, grinning at him from behind that thick blond beard, or Tenzing watching him with wary eyes. But Ianto is in the lead now, picking out the path for the others to follow, and when they stop, they’ll set up their own tent and cook their own meal. No one to do it for them. No one to help them if things go wrong.

Just a compass and a cheap map, that’s all they have.

Still, they’ve made it this far, and Ianto isn’t about to let them lay down and die now. They need to find Harold Saxon, to stop him. They need answers. They need to do something, make it all mean something. They can‘t, _Ianto_ can‘t, let all those deaths be for nothing.

But even thinking of Harold Saxon gives him an uneasy feeling, like he’s being watched. Thus far, they’ve managed to stay about half a step ahead of the man (if he’s a man at all), but there’s no guarantee their luck will hold. Saxon could still have one last trick up his sleeve, something none of them could predict. All they have is hope, now, hope that Saxon will assume that the job is done now that his artifact has exploded. Hope that Saxon will assume that they're easy to kill.

Hope, a compass, and a cheap map.

Ianto glances down at the map in his hands. The path to Muri is nothing more than a thin red line. He looks back at the threatening bulk of the mountains, checks his compass. They're headed in the right direction. He'll get them to Muri, and then he'll get them home. He has to.

The others watch him, patiently waiting for his next move. They seem to have faith in him, and it's terrifying, but it's reason enough to keep moving. He can't let his team down.

Hope, a compass, a cheap map, and each other.

It isn’t much, but Ianto thinks maybe it could be enough. Maybe.

**7 October 2008**

They’re curled up against each other in the tent, packed tight like sardines. Ianto swears he feels every movement that they make as they roll over, shift, try to get comfortable. They’re all elbows and knees, cold toes, steaming breath, and Owen’s cough refuses to give up and go away. And they stink, too, all of them. Bad breath. No showers, no chance to wash their clothing. A rapidly dwindling supply of deodorant.

The weird thing is how it really doesn’t bother him. They’re all alone in a harsh and hostile landscape, and there’s a comfort in cramming together in one tent, clinging to each other like children frightened of the dark. He wonders if he might actually miss this when they get home.

_If_ they get home.

“It’s Election Day,” Tosh says, her voice breaking the quiet. “Do you think...”

Owen snorts. “He’s got the entire British population brainwashed, Tosh. There isn’t a hope in heaven that he’d lose.”

“Maybe it’s for the best, though,” Gwen says. “I mean... not really, but... if it’ll keep him distracted...”

Ianto can’t think of anything to say. He feels strange somehow, as though he’s in two places at the same time. No, that’s not quite right; he’s in two times at the same place. It’s a strange thought, and he clamps it down at once. He’s only frightened, that’s all. It’s been a bad month and it isn’t over yet, and he’s having a hard time coping. It’ll pass. It always does.

“We still don’t know how to stop him,” Owen points out. “Christ only knows what he’s going to do now he’s got access to the Rift, or if that’s even what he wants.”

“Worry about that later,” Ianto replies, forcing himself to sound calm, because he’s the leader now and he has to be calm. “Right now, let’s just get back to civilization. Then we’ll worry about Saxon.”

“And hope he’s forgotten about us,” Gwen murmurs.

**8 October 2008**

Just breathing is enough to make Ianto feel giddy. The air is rich down here, waking up his numbed, oxygen-starved mind, and the sun is gentler. It warms them without scorching. Black rock and blue ice have been replaced by lush green grass, poppies nodding in the breeze. There is life, here. After all that death, there is life. He breathes it all in and lets it fill him up.

The others have caught his mood; their steps are lighter, quicker, their heads higher. Gwen laughs and shakes her head, and Tosh listens with interest as Ianto and Owen bicker. "All I'm saying is that if it were a fair footrace, the Flash would win. Every bloody time."

Ianto snorts. "Your idea of a fair footrace involves Superman willingly forsaking the use of all his powers, while the Flash can do whatever he bloody well pleases."

Owen flushes; he's taken some of the bandages off, and his face is scabbing over, healing rapidly now that they're at lower altitude. He's still uglier than usual, but there's something hopeful in that, a small sign of progress made. "I never said..."

"The Flash can vibrate through any obstacles in his path, but Superman has to go around?" Honestly, Ianto doesn't even really care; he was never much of one for comic books, but Gwen is rolling her eyes at them in an affectionate sort of way, and Tosh is giggling, and that's more than enough reason to make an arse of himself. They look happy for the first time in so long, not scared and miserable, but genuinely happy. He will do whatever it takes to make the moment last, as long as he can.

"Look," Owen says, hands on his hips, looking like nothing so much as an angry rooster. "If you're so certain that your precious Superman will win, there's no harm in giving him a bit of a handicap, is there?"

"He's not my..." The sky goes abruptly dark, and Ianto's voice dies somewhere on the way to his throat. He looks up, his heart hammering in his chest.

Ianto watches as the sun is covered up by masses of black thunderheads, cutting off all light and warmth. He shivers in the sudden chill, breathing in short, shallow gasps. Then the sky just _cracks_ , splitting apart to reveal a dark and terrifying void, edged by flames and crackles of lightning. For a moment, there is only that, only the void, and then black specks start boiling out of it, like a plague of locusts descending. They fill the sky, moving in every direction, a cloud spreading over the entire world.

All is silent, and yet Ianto can almost hear it, pounding in the distance. The drumbeat. The call to war.

Gwen draws in a short, sharp breath, and then another. "Wh-what... what is it?" she asks, her voice shaking so badly that it's a miracle the words come out at all.

No one has an answer for her. Ianto himself can't speak; he's afraid that this is how the world ends. They huddle together, silent, watching Armageddon streak across the skies.

Finally, Ianto gives himself a litle shake, hoists his pack higher on his shoulders, and looks back at the others. "We have to keep going."

Owen gapes at him; even Tosh looks startled. "But... those things..." Gwen protests.

Ianto takes a deep breath and keeps his eyes on his team; he can't look at the sky anymore. If he does, he'll never have the courage to move again. "We can't do anything about that now, Gwen. All we can do is keep moving, try to get home."

His eyes meet Owen's, looking for something, some support. "Right," Owen says, finally. "Let's go." He wraps his arm around Tosh's shoulders and pulls her close, tugging her forward, and the two of them walk on together.

Gwen is still staring at the sky. Ianto lays a hand on her shoulder, finally managing to get her attention. "Gwen," he says, quietly. "Come on."

She looks at him for a long time, her eyes huge. "I'm scared, Ianto."

"I know," he says. "But we have to keep going."

Gwen presses her lips together and nods once. Her arm wraps around him, and he lets her lean on him as they hurry to catch up with Owen and Tosh. Nobody says anything more. They crowd together, backs hunched as they flee before the gathering storm.

**9 October 2008**

Owen is sipping a mug of boiled water, watching Ianto with the strangest expression on his face, something almost like the look he had when Jack was laying still and peaceful in the morgue, like he's done something he'll never forgive himself for. Ianto can't understand it. None of this is Owen's fault. If anything, Ianto is the one who should have...

He stops that thought before it can go any further and tears his gaze away from Owen, to Tosh and Gwen. They're sitting together, a few meters away. Tosh is nibbling on a bit of trail mix in a numb, automatic way, curled into herself, seeing nothing. Gwen is trying to drag a comb through her tangled, filthy hair, a strange sort of desperation on her face; Ianto supposes this is her way of trying to bring back normality, to make things a little less nightmarish, a little less bleak. But she can't do it; after a few minutes' dogged struggle, she flings the comb to the ground and buries her head in her hands. Tosh, right next to her, doesn't even flinch.

They're on the verge of falling apart, all of them. It'll only take one thing, one small thing, to shatter them. So before Gwen can start to cry, Ianto picks up the comb and settles in behind her. "Let me," he says.

"Sorry." Gwen sniffles, wiping at her eyes with grubby fingers. "It's stupid, I know, only hair, but..."

Ianto says nothing, his fingers working gently through her dark hair, carefully pulling apart the worst of the matting. She relaxes, her shoulders slumping, her head dropping forward. "You're good at this," she says.

For just a moment, the familiarity of the situation overcomes the fear, and Ianto smiles, remembering. "Four younger sisters," he says. "You get a lot of practice in."

"Four? Christ." There's something strange in Owen's eyes, something almost sad.

"I bet you made an excellent big brother," Gwen says, tipping her head forward so he has a better angle.

_Made_. Past tense. It is possible, of course, that he will never see his family again, that he will die here and they will never know what happened to him, that they will wait forever. But then he thinks of the sky opening up, black specks boiling out in every direction, all over the world. There were so many of them. They could have gone anywhere, everywhere. Maybe Newport is burning. Maybe Wales has been destroyed. Maybe everything and everyone he loves is already dead.

"Ianto?"

He takes a deep breath and goes back to work, teasing apart a knot with the comb, because not everyone is dead. Not yet.

A laugh rises up from out of nowhere -- it can't be anyone on the team; it's someone, something else. It's almost innocent, almost a child's laugh, and yet it's alien. Malevolent. Deeply wrong. Gwen stiffens. Tosh's head snaps up as she looks around, her hands trembling. Owen drops his cup and stands, water darkening the ground at his feet. "What the fuck," Owen breathes.

Ianto feels the hair on the back of his neck standing on end.. He carefully sets the comb down, no sudden movements, and rises, drawing his gun and stepping in front of Gwen. "Hello?" he asks, trying to keep his voice calm. "Is anyone there?"

There's only laughter, echoing through the clearing.

Owen slinks up to Ianto's side, his own gun clenched in shaking hands. "What d'you think it is?" he asks.

"No clue," Ianto breathes, before calling out again. "Come on out! We won't hurt you."

More laughter, and Ianto can't suppress a shudder. There's something so _wrong_ in that sound.

"There!" Tosh cries, pointing, but whatever she saw is already gone by the time Ianto spins around. "Did you see it?"

"Too fast," Owen mutters, holstering his gun. "Too fucking fast."

"It was one of those black things, the ones we saw yesterday," Tosh insists. "I _know_ it."

Ianto swallows hard, his heart still pounding away at a thousand miles an hour. If Tosh is right (and she is, of course she is)...

Owen folds his arms; he looks more frightened than angry. "Could be those... things are what Saxon wanted. Like a weapon. Or an army."

Tosh nods, chewing nervously on her lip. Her eyes are fixed far away, on the spot where she saw that _thing_. "If they came from Saxon, they'll go back to him. They'll tell him where we are."

Ianto takes a deep breath, then another, finally tucks his gun back in its holster. "Right," he says, and stops, because he has no idea what to say. How can he possibly make them feel safe now? "From now on, we're armed at all times," he finally tells them, and it isn't much, Christ knows, but it's all he can think of. He wonders, again, how Jack ever managed.

Gwen and Tosh immediately unzip their rucksacks and start rummaging through for their weapons. Ianto glances at Owen, sees the other man watching him with something close to respect. They wait for the girls to load their guns, tuck them into holsters, sling their packs back onto their shoulders. "Come on," Ianto says, finally, and they start walking towards Muri once again.

Muri. Just the name of it sounds alive, beautiful. Inspires hope. They'll make it. They have to.

But Ianto can't help thinking of that laughter. It was so... cruel. Mocking. Triumphant, even. Like they'd already lost this fight.

They just didn't know it yet.

**10 October 2008**

He’s probably pushing them too hard, too fast, but he’s so scared right now. Even worse, none of them are complaining. They follow him without question.

They haven’t seen anything since yesterday; they haven’t heard anything. But Ianto can’t shake the feeling that they’re being watched. Worse than that, he can’t shake the feeling that every step he’s forcing them to take is just hurrying them towards their deaths.

But to stop would be to give up, and he’s not willing to do that either.

He keeps going, and the others follow without a word.

**11 October 2008**

For just a moment, Ianto gives in to the despair, letting out a sound that's not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.

This is Muri.

This _was_ Muri. Now it is burned, destroyed, demolished; nothing more than rubble and scorched stone. The air is thick with greasy smoke, and the smoke has a tang that's almost like cooked meat, but... not meat. Not at all.

No one could have survived this. Ianto chokes back another helpless noise. It’s a bit late for tears anyway.

“What could have done this,” Gwen says, staring horrified at a heap of smoldering wood that may have been a house, or a teashop, or possibly a traveler’s lodge. A blackened arm sticks out from underneath the rubble, and Ianto knows he’ll never forget this, as long as he lives. “Why? Why would someone... why would anyone...” Gwen looks at them all with horrified eyes, and Owen glances up from the wreckage, his expression haunted.

“Come off it, Gwen,” he says, tersely. “Saxon’s already proved he doesn’t give a rat’s arse who he kills, so long as we die too.”

Tosh kicks over a plank of wood, as if expecting one of the little black balls to dodge out from underneath it, but there’s nothing. Ianto draws his gun anyway, just in case. “So,” Tosh says. “Now what?”

“We’re nearly out of food,” Ianto says, and pretends his voice isn’t shaking. “We’ll have to scavenge some up before we go anywhere else.”

“What if there isn’t anywhere else?” Gwen demands, and she’s getting hysterical now. “What if the whole world’s like this?”

Owen picks himself up and dusts himself off. “Well, then, I guess we’ll sit here and die, shall we?”

Gwen looks close to tears, and really, this has gone far enough. “ _Owen_ ,” Ianto snaps, and Owen falls silent, turns away as though chastened. It's not that Ianto blames either of them; if he could take refuge in panic or rage, he would. But he's got to keep the team together. He can't let them fall apart, not now. “We can’t give up hope now, Gwen." He touches her hand as gently as possible; out of the corner of his eyes, he can see Tosh drawing nearer, see Owen look up. He's got everyone's attention. Good. "There have to be survivors somewhere. We will find them. We have to keep going.”

Gwen finally meets his eyes, almost smiling, and then he hears it again, that laughter. There’s nowhere left to run. “Get down!” Ianto shouts, seizing Gwen around the waist and hurling her behind what remains of a stone wall. Owen, bless him, never hesitates, tackling Tosh and dragging her to shelter. Then the black balls are filling the sky, so many of them. Too many.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” a child’s voice calls, and it grips him for a moment, that sense of dreadful wrongness. The voice is alien, mad, terrifying. “Come and play, Mr. Jones!”

“Naughty Mr. Jones!”

“Bad Mr. Jones!”

They’re calling him by name. The fear surges, and then suddenly recedes, replaced by a last, desperate wave of hope. If he can buy the others a bit of time, even just a little bit... “If it looks like I’ve got them distracted,” Ianto hisses in Gwen’s ear, “you have to run. Run and don’t stop. The others will follow you.”

She whimpers and clutches at him, but Ianto steps out of hiding, steps out into the open, the black orbs hovering all around him like a dark cloud. “Who are you?” he asks, and his voice is shaking badly. “What do you want?”

"We are the Toclafane!" one chirps, in that high, obscenely childlike voice.

"This is our place now."

"Master gave it to us. It's a good place. We like it."

"You can't have it," Ianto says, because there isn’t anything else to say. "It's ours."

"Master gave it to us!"

"We don't listen to you!"

Ianto is scrambling for something else to say when there’s a flash of light and Gwen shrieks. Instinctively, he moves to protect her, but the black orbs have suddenly sprouted blades. They swarm around him, blocking his path. He can only watch as his team is rousted from their hiding spots and herded back towards him.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, because they’re all going to die.

“’Salright, mate,” Owen says, drawing his gun. The others follow suit, because even if it’s useless, they’ve got to do something. “You tried.”

Ianto blinks away sudden tears.

The sun beats down on them as they stand in the middle of the ruins, smoke rising up to heaven. The Toclafane are a thick, black circle around them, a hurricane cloud, and his team form a circle of their own, shoulder to shoulder, guns out. Ianto lifts his chin, forces his hands to stop shaking. “This is our world,” he says, and his voice is surprisingly steady. “Not yours, not your Master’s. And we’ll get it back.”

They just laugh at him.

He fires, but it’s like trying to shoot smoke; there’s no way he can hit them or hurt them. And then they’re coming at him, and he doesn’t even have time to scream, just a low groan torn from his throat as the blades sink in, severing tendons in bright flashes of pain, cutting into him, cutting him apart, and he feels himself collapsing like a puppet with its strings severed, and behind him, someone is screaming, someone else is shouting, but he can't quite make out what they're saying.

There's dust in his eyes, and he can't reach up to rub at them. Tears blur his vision. There’s a bit of wet red in front of him, and he isn’t sure whether it’s part of someone else’s body, or part of his.

His heartbeat is slow, and each breath causes a sharp stab of agony, and he doesn’t think he can move anything because he’s not sure there’s anything left of him to move. He tries anyway, because his team is in danger, and he has to protect them, but even the small twitch he manages sets fire shooting through his body, and he collapses with a whimper.

For a moment, he wonders if he’s already dead, and if this is what eternity is going to be like.

Then there’s a darkness folding itself around him, different than anything he’s ever known, deep and warm and somehow kind, and although he tries to fight it, tries to cling to the pain if that’s what it takes...

He's dying.

It’s over.

*

*

*

It’s never _really_ over.

*

*

*

The world is knocked off its axis by the breadth of a hair. Millions of voices cry out at once, all of them chanting the same name. A strange, radiant glow.

*

*

*

_"DOCTOR!"_

*

*

*

**8 October 2008**

"The Flash can vibrate through any obstacles in his path, but Superman has to go around?" Honestly, Ianto doesn't know why he's having this argument; he doesn't even really care for comic books. But Tosh and Gwen are giggling and rolling their eyes, and they could all use a bit of a distraction, something to think about besides mountains and bodies and this long, exhausting trek.

He just wishes it didn't feel so familiar, somehow. Like they'd already had this fight. Like he's stuck in two times at the same place.

"Look," Owen says, hands on his hips. He's flushed from exertion, and looks comical, like an angry rooster. For some reason, just that makes Ianto shudder. "If you're so certain that your precious Superman will win, there's no harm in giving him a bit of a handicap, is there?"

"He's not my..." Ianto's voice dies in his throat, and he half expects the sky to grow dark, but it doesn't. The sun is shining, the grass is green, the poppies sway in the breeze. The air is rich, saturated with oxygen. Why does he feel like he can't breathe? "It's just ridiculous, that's all," he says, trying to sound like he isn't terrified. "Superman's faster than a speeding bullet; of course he'll win."

"Yes, but the Flash is capable of traveling at at least ten times the speed of light," Tosh says. "More than that, possibly, although it depends on which Flash you're talking about. Barry Allen was the fastest, of course, because he had the closest connection to the Speed Force, and he was said to actually travel faster than the speed of thought..." She blushes, realizing that everyone is staring, and falls abruptly silent.

"There, you see? Tosh knows what she's talking about." Owen beams, and claps Toshiko on the shoulder. "The Flash wins. Every time."

Ianto nods, absently. "I suppose so," he says, and tries to puzzle out why this feels so wrong, why he's so sure it wasn't supposed to go this way.

They keep walking, and Ianto tries to ignore the echoes pounding through his head, the memory of drums.

**9 October 2008**

Gwen struggles to work a comb through the snarls and tangles in her dark hair, face a picture of frustration. Ianto half-expects her to throw the comb down, to burst into tears. But she doesn't, and when he thinks about it, Ianto wonders why he even thought she'd be upset. It's only hair, after all.

Owen is watching him, studying him like a specimen. There's something almost like worry on the doctor's face; it makes Ianto uneasy, both frightened and vaguely angry. He doesn't need Owen thinking he's about to crack up. He can handle this.

When he can't take it anymore, he pushes to his feet and crosses the clearing, settling down behind Gwen and plucking the comb from her hand. "You're making a mess of it," he says, a bit more sharply than intended, then takes a deep breath and gentles his tone. "Let me."

"You really don't have to," Gwen protests, but her head drops forward to give him better access. He works at the knots from the bottom up, slow and careful, and they practically undo themselves. "You're better at this than I am," Gwen admits, finally.

"Four younger sisters," Ianto says. "You get a lot of practice in."

"Four?" Owen repeats. For some reason, Ianto was expecting to see sorrow on Owen's face, but there's only a sort of amused surprise. "Christ. I feel sorry for you."

Gwen tells him that he must be an amazing older brother. Ianto doesn't reply, and tries to ignore the trace of mocking laughter that echoes around the clearing. It's only dreams. He can _handle_ this.

**10 October 2008**

He's probably pushing them too hard, too fast, but he's so scared right now. The strange thing is, he doesn't really know why.

Owen is bitching again, complaining about the nature and the walking and the pace, saying that he's not the Flash after all, and he's still got that bloody cough, and really, they could slow down a bit, it's not like anything is following them. For some reason, those words make Ianto's heart leap, make it thud so loudly he's amazed the others can't see it.

Tosh catches up to him, rests a hand on his arm. “Ianto,” she says, her eyes so worried, her hand so gentle. "Are you all right?"

How can he explain this dislocation, this sense of two times in the same place? He can't, of course. She'd worry, and even if she didn't, there simply aren't words for it, not in English, not in any language. “Sorry,” he says, with his best sheepish grin. “I just... the sooner we're back to civilization, the happier I'll be.”

Tosh squeezes his forearm. “Believe me, I understand.” He slows down to keep pace with her, letting the others catch up to them. “Didn't sleep very well last night, did you?” she asks.

Ianto can only blink. To be quite honest, he doesn't remember sleeping at all. “Sorry. Did I keep you up?”

She shrugs. “I wasn't sleeping very well either. Only... you just sounded really frightened. Bad dreams?”

“Must have been.” Ianto smiles. “I don't remember them. Actually, I hardly ever remember my dreams, so there's one for you. Even if they're terrible, they're gone by next day.”

“Lucky you,” Tosh says, and he gets the sense that she doesn't quite believe him. But she doesn't argue, either.

He keeps going, slowing the pace down, and the others follow him.

**11 October 2008**

Ianto lets out a sound that is not quite a laugh, not quite a sob.

This is Muri.

Plumes of smoke rise up from the village, probably cooking fires. The little huts are all beautifully, perfectly intact. The villagers spare them confused, and possibly concerned, looks as they go about their daily business. Ianto supposes that it’s not every day a group of lost trekkers wanders into Muri, bedraggled and only half alive, staring about them as if this tiny village were Shangri-La.

Gwen’s arm slips around Ianto’s waist, and Owen ducks his head and takes a few deep breaths, because they’re here, and they haven’t died, and right now, it’s hard to believe. It's strange, but somehow Ianto was sure... He was so _sure_...

After a few, numb seconds, Tosh says, “Well. I suppose we’d better find a teahouse or something, hadn’t we?” Then she’s approaching the nearest villager (an old man with a face full of wrinkles, and a mouth with no teeth left), trying to start a conversation in her fractured, phrasebook Nepali.

Ianto can only cling to Gwen and stare, because he really really didn’t think they’d get out of this alive, and yet here they are, and they’re still breathing.

*

There aren’t any teahouses, but the old man has a field for their tent, and a wife who’s more than willing to fill them full of _dal bhat_ , and it’s amazing after five days of stumbling through the wilderness just to sit in someone’s kitchen and eat food that they don’t have to rehydrate. It’s amazing just to be in a building, not in a tent.

It’s amazing just to be alive.

After supper, they huddle together in the tent (their last night packed in like this, like sardines, and Ianto thinks he really will miss it, strangely enough), as Tosh fiddles with her laptop, fingers flying with renewed vitality, and suddenly, there it is, the outside world, a newscaster’s voice. “-- a world still reeling from the death of President Winters, assassinated by British Prime Minister Harold Saxon.”

“What the bleeding blue fuck,” Owen whispers, in awe. The others lean in to get a better view. Ianto hangs back, even though he doesn't know why.

When the small black orbs, all blades and lasers and childlike voices, appear on the screen, he begins to shake and cannot stop.

_(come and play, Mr. Jones)_

And even when the Doctor appears in a burst of radiant light,

_(naughty Mr. Jones)_

And Jack is there to block Saxon’s escape, dirty and disheveled, but grinning his old familiar grin,

_(bad Mr. Jones)_

Ianto cannot stop himself from shaking, shaking.

“Knew it,” Owen growls. “Knew Harkness would get himself mixed up in this somehow.”

And for the first time in a long time, Ianto finds himself mercilessly claustrophobic, scarcely able to breathe in this confined space, with the team huddled around him. He pushes away, ignoring Tosh’s worried eyes, Owen’s knowing look. “Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?” he asks, and hurries out of the tent without waiting for a reply.

_(he feels himself collapsing like a puppet with its strings severed, and behind him, someone is screaming)_

_(he can’t move)_

_(there’s nothing he can do)_

He collapses on the ground, his legs folded beneath him, and tries to catch his breath. It occurs to him that he might just be going out of his mind. He’s dislocated, two times in the same place, and he’s dead, but he’s not. He’s Schrödinger’s cat.

He’s really going out of his mind.

But somehow, when his mobile rings, he pulls it out of his pocket, flips it open, and says “Ianto Jones,” in a voice that’s far too calm to have ever belonged to him. He hasn’t even answered his phone for over a month, but. Old habits die hard.

“Ianto?” The voice on the other end is shaky, filled with strange emotions, but Ianto knows that voice so well. Even months after he last heard it, he still knows it. He will always know it.

“ _Jack_ ,” he breathes, and it’s a good thing he’s sitting down, because if he weren’t, his legs would have given out from underneath him. “Oh God, Jack.”

“Ianto. Ianto, Ianto.” For a few seconds, all Ianto can hear is Jack’s shaky breathing. Then he starts talking, fast. “Where are you? How are you? How’s the team? Is everyone all right? Are you --”

Despite himself, Ianto lets out a curious, quavering laugh. “Jack, please, one at a time.” Jack falls silent, and Ianto takes a deep breath, then another, because this really is just too surreal. “We’re in Muri; it’s in Nepal, in the foothills of the Dhaulagiri Himal. We’re alive. We’re all right. We’re...” And he thinks of everything that’s happened, everything he’s seen, everything he’s had to do, and he swallows hard. “We’re alive,” he says again. “Are you all right? Are you still on the Valiant?”

“There’s some things I have to do,” Jack says. “Just some loose ends that have to be tied up. I’ve been calling and calling, but I couldn’t get through. Ianto...”

“We’re all right now, Jack,” Ianto says, and it’s soothing in a way, to comfort Jack. “We’re alive.”

“Alive.” Jack says it with such reverence, and for just a moment,

_(he’s already dead)_

Ianto is absolutely sure --

_(darkness folding around him)_

“Alive,” Jack says again, and the memories fall away.

“And you’re alive,” Ianto says, unable to keep the flood of relief out of his voice.

Jack laughs, and the sound is pained, desperate; it hints at a hundred thousand things that Ianto doesn’t want to think about. “I’m _always_ alive,” Jack says, and he doesn’t sound too happy about that, but then the moment passes. “You’ll be home soon?”

“There’s a bus coming to take us to Pokhara tomorrow,” Ianto says. “And from there to Kathmandu, Heathrow... We should be in Cardiff in three days, four at the most. Are you...” It’s hard to find the words. “Will you be...”

Jack’s laugh is warmer this time, more like himself. “Yes, Ianto,” he says, very quietly. “I’m not sure when I’ll be done here; there’s a lot to take care of, but as soon as it’s all over, I’ll be home. I promise.”

“Good.” A traitorous sniffle escapes him then; he has to choke back his tears with an effort. “That’s good to hear, sir. I’ll... I’ll make sure there’s coffee waiting for you.”

More laughter, and it sounds like Jack hasn’t laughed in ages. Ianto wants to ask him what happened, what _really_ happened, but he doubts Jack could tell him, even if he was in the mood to do it. “Ianto,” Jack says. “Christ, I’ve missed your coffee.”

“As have I, sir. I did my best, but there’s only so much one can do with a propane stove and a jar of instant crystals.” This time, they laugh together, and Ianto wonders how much Jack can tell from the tone of his voice, the tenor of his laugh. Probably everything; he doesn't have the presence of mind to hide himself, not right now. But it doesn’t really matter much. It’s enough to pretend that everything’s all right, for the moment.

The rest will come later.

“All right.” There’s a note of resignation in Jack’s voice. “I have to go. There’s so much... But I’ll be home soon, Ianto, I promise. Tell the others... tell them I’ll be home soon.”

Ianto smiles. _Home_. “I will, Jack.”

“And tell them that if they’re going to hit me, I’d prefer it if they left my face alone.”

“I’ll hold them back, sir.”

“Thank you.” Jack’s voice cracks on the words, unexpectedly. “Thank you for looking after them, Ianto.”

Ianto has to take a few deep breaths, and fight to keep his voice steady. “Just doing my job, sir.”

“I’ll see you soon, Ianto.”

“See you soon. Jack.”

“Bye.” There’s a long space of silence as the two of them cling to their phones, unwilling to break the connection, and then a soft _click_ as Jack finally hangs up. It takes a bit longer for Ianto to be able to do the same.

Finally, he flips his phone shut and slides it into his pocket. He needs to get back to the others; he needs to tell them... Instead, he buries his face in his hands, and sits like that for a long time.

It’s over. It’s finally over.

*

*

*

_(It’s never_ really _over.)_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From my original author's note: " This was probably the hardest section to write, technically, and required the most editing assistance. [livejournal user] seize came through big time, and made some really brilliant suggestions. If you like it enough to comment, maybe send some thanks her way?" Honestly, I wish I knew where to thank her these days. This is one of the hardest things I've ever tried to write, and I've written a fair amount of time travel since then.
> 
> The Flash vs. Superman argument is a callback to ABC's LOST, one of my other favorite shows.


	7. Epilogue (Lazarus)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are facts and details, but there are no answers.

**12 October 2008**

Their bus disgorges them in front of a hotel in Pokhara. The city makes Ianto's head spin; too crowded, too many people and cars and buildings. It's a clamor of voices talking in a dozen different languages, honking horns, music drifting from someplace nearby. Whirls of color, bright fabrics, rusted cars, the blue of the sky and the black of the mountains that slice jagged lines across the horizon. Cooking odors rise up from food stalls; there's the reek of diesel fumes, pot and patchouli and incense, the pungent smell of humanity crowded together, washed and unwashed alike. The air is hot and heavy, pressing down on him, the sun scorching his skin. He tastes bile in the back of his throat. It's too much to deal with, too much to take in, and he has to hang his head for a few dizzy seconds, breathe deeply, clench his trembling hands into fists and cling desperately to his composure.

"Are you all right?" Gwen asks, her hand warm and light on the small of his back.

Ianto tries to focus on that gentle pressure, shut out the confusion all around him. "Fine," he says, forcing his eyes open, managing a weak smile. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Bit carsick, that's all."

Owen looks at him, sizing him up. "Could do with a rest, maybe. We all could. Come on." He slings his pack up onto his shoulder (they came with so much, and now all they've got with them is their backpacks), and sets off into the hotel. After a few moments, the others follow him.

It's cooler in the hotel, shady and nice. The woman behind the counter has a soft, melodic accent. It isn't long before Ianto is able to breathe again. The hotel is crowded, trekkers doing the Annapurna circuit before it gets too cold, but they find two rooms next to each other, one for the boys, one for the girls. Even now that everything's safe, Ianto wants to keep the others close to him.

The rooms are shabby and small, but heavenly compared to their tent. Owen heads straight for his bed. Ianto, after a moment's thought, goes into the bathroom. He splashes cold water on his face to soothe the lingering nausea, looks up at the mirror, and finds himself face to face with a stranger. Thick black beard and a dark tan, skin weathered from exposure. The face is thin and weary, the eyes haunted and hard.

Ianto knows, of course, that he's looking at his own reflection, but something inside him refuses to admit it. _I died_ , he thinks. _Didn't I?_

But it's just a dream, just stress, fear, pressure; all those things he's pushed aside for too long coming up in his sleep. He'll shower; he'll shave. He'll feel better for it.

It helps, a little bit. Just the sensation of hot water pounding down on him is so novel that it drowns out all other thought. But when he finally emerges from the bathroom, water droplets clinging to his skin, his face stinging from a few fresh nicks, Owen is thrashing on the bed, muttering "Ianto... no, Gwen... back... keep together..." and Ianto's heart stops for a few seconds, before starting up again with a fierce, uneven rhythm

**15 October 2008**

Tosh is pale, her eyes dark-circled. Ianto takes a seat next to her, glancing uneasily about the foyer of the British Embassy as he does so. It's very grand, people sweeping in and out in suits and ties, and he's sharply aware of how his team must look, in ragged t-shirts and shorts and jeans, dusty, trail-worn boots. He used to fit in places like this. Now he feels like he doesn't fit anywhere.

"All right, Tosh?" he asks, when too much time has gone by and she still isn't looking at him.

"Bad dreams, I guess," she says, and he suppresses a shiver. It's the air-conditioning, of course; they've got it up far too high in this building. "Those black things, you know? The ones Saxon had, the ones we saw in the news footage. There were so many of them, and..."

He squeezes her hand and forces a smile. "Just a dream, Tosh. That's all."

Then there's a slim, blonde woman in a beige suit standing in front of them. "Torchwood Three? Follow me, please."

**16 October 2008**

Gwen's fallen asleep with her head on Ianto's shoulder. He glances past her, out the window, but he can't see anything but clouds. He remembers the flight in, face pressed against the plastic as the peaks came into view, the sharp spike of Everest, trailing its plume of snow and ice. He wonders if he'll ever see mountains the same way again.

"No, Ianto don't..." Gwen mutters, clutching at him. "Don't, they'll kill you, don't..."

He kisses the top of her head, tells himself that it's all just coincidence, nothing more. "I'm here, Gwen," he says. "I'm right here."

Eventually, her grip relaxes, and the fear leaves her face.

**18 October 2008**

_Behind him, someone is screaming. Owen shouts "Ianto! No, Gwen, stay back! We have to keep together!" Then there's gunshots, and Owen lets out a strangled cry, and Gwen screams again._

_Ianto himself cannot scream. His breath comes in harsh, choking gasps as the knives slice in. His legs give out and he hits the ground face first, dust stinging his eyes. Tears blur his vision._

_He wants to pick himself up, try to protect his team, to at least see what's happening, but he can't move his arms or his legs, if he even has them. He arches his back, but collapses when every part of his body screams in agony. The best he can do is focus his eyes on a scrap of something wet and red just inches from his face._

_He wonders if it's a part of someone else's body, or part of his._

_He holds on to the pain as long as he can, just to keep himself alive, but it's fading fast now, replaced by a strange, soothing warmth. He is dying. It's over._

_It's never_ really _over._

_The world is knocked off its axis by the breadth of a hair. Millions of voices are all shouting the same name at once. A strange and radiant glow._

“Doctor!”

He wakes to the sound of his own voice echoing off the walls, and for several long seconds, he has no idea where he is or how he got here. _I’m dead_ , he thinks. _I’m dead_.

But he breathes in, and the air is warm and rich, saturated with oxygen, and no, he’s not dead. He’s in Cardiff, in the Hub, and if all goes well, Jack will be home tomorrow.

It’s over.

It’s finally over, and he can rest.

Except, of course, that he can’t.

London has been breathing down his neck ever since that first, shortened debriefing session in Kathmandu. Two of their field agents are dead, eleven civilians killed, and Torchwood Three has emerged relatively unharmed; of course they want answers. It’s just that Ianto doesn’t have any to give. He's got details, and he's got facts, but when he puts them all together, they don't add up to anything like an answer.

Then again, if he's learned anything in his life, after Canary Wharf and Lisa and Brynblaidd and everything else he's seen, he's learned that sometimes, there just aren't any answers.

It doesn't stop him from calling the families of those who died on Dhaulagiri; Scott's fiancee, Steve's parents, Hillary's wife and children back in New Zealand. He lets them cry and rage, even lets them attempt to console him (although his loss is nothing to theirs; his grief so insignificant in comparison). They don't even have bodies to bury, or personal effects to retrieve. All they have are questions, and no answers.

There are no answers, and there is no acceptance; peace is a lie and closure is bullshit. The best he can do is put his suits on in the morning (ignoring how loose and baggy they are, how they hang on him in awkward folds of fabric), go to work, and try to hold the team together until Jack gets back.

It isn’t much, but if he keeps trying, it might hurt less someday. And that'll do to be getting on with.

*

The others are gathered around Tosh’s computer, watching the CCTV feed from the Plass.

Ianto is on Jack’s phone, trying to placate a frantic undersecretary from Torchwood One. “I understand that, Beverly, but Captain Harkness’s orders were very firm. The formal debriefing absolutely cannot be scheduled until his return. Yes, I know Mr. Brooke’s feelings on the subject.”

He glances up to find Gwen’s eyes on him. She mouths one word: “Jack.”

“I understand. Believe me, Beverly. I know that. I do.” Then there’s the grinding sound of the invisible lift descending, and the rest of the team stands up, watching with eager eyes. “There’s nothing I can do about it; I’m afraid. It’s simply out of my hands. Beverly, I have to... Yes, yes, I know all about that, but I’ve got to...”

Jack steps off the paving stone, sees his team members gathered around Tosh’s desk, sees Ianto with the phone pressed to his ear saying “I’m terribly sorry, Beverly, but I really can’t talk right now...” and calmly strides back to his own office, plucking the phone from Ianto’s suddenly nerveless hands.

“Hi, Beverly?” Jack’s voice isn't as effortlessly seductive as it might once have been; there's a tightness to it, an undertone of rage and grief. “This is Captain Harkness. Look, I’m afraid I need Ianto right now, so you’re just going to have to call back another time, all right?” Then the phone is in its cradle and Ianto is pulled into Jack’s arms, awkward and confused for only a moment until he smells warm wool and soap, and he buries his face in Jack’s shoulder and clings tight, his breath coming in uneven shudders.

Jack’s arms are tight around him, warm and solid and reassuring as ever, but he can hear Jack’s heart pounding much too quickly, a fast drumbeat, an echo of things that never were, and Ianto is frightened for reasons he cannot name. "I thought I _lost_ you," Jack whispers, and that shaken, almost broken tone is back in his voice.

"We're here, Sir," Ianto says, spreading his hands out against Jack's back, loosening his grip until he's just holding, not clutching. "We're here."

"Thanks to you," Jack says, quietly.

Then Gwen is flying at them, crushing herself against them, sobbing into Ianto’s shoulder, and Tosh hesitates until Jack holds out his hand and draws her in.

Owen hesitates in the doorway, mutters about “Torchwood group hug” and “bloody ridiculous,” but when Ianto looks up at him, Owen sighs. “Fine,” he says, and slides one arm around Tosh’s waist, the other around Ianto’s shoulders. He holds himself stiff and aloof for a moment more, then gives up and leans in, shaking just a little.

It's Owen's trembling that does Ianto in; he can feel the tears starting at the corners of his eyes, and maybe he should, but he just can't, not right now. So he draws back, straightens his suit, and manages a small smile. “I believe I promised you a cup of coffee, Sir?"

Jack smiles back, one arm still draped around Gwen and Tosh’s hand clutched in his. His eyes, however, are thoughtful, as if he can see through Ianto's skin. Finally he nods. “Thanks, Ianto.”

Before anyone else can say anything, Ianto flees.

In the kitchenette, Ianto stares at the coffeemaker as if he’s never seen such a thing before, and when he goes to pour the beans into the grinder, his hands are shaking so badly that he spills them all over. He has to stop and take several deep breaths before he can even attempt to sweep them up. It’s ridiculous, really; Jack is back and all is well. He should be happy now. But it's all still there, all that loss and grief and fear, and he's not sure how much longer he can keep a handle on it. But he has to. For the team.

He's still on his hands and knees, sweeping coffee beans into the dustpan, when Jack comes in. Ianto doesn't have to look up to see him; he can feel that presence, too large for the space, making him irrationally claustrophobic. "Gets to be a habit, doesn't it?" Jack asks, quietly. "Being strong for them. Pushing all the fear and the doubt away, all the pain, because you know that if they see you're scared, they'll be terrified."

Ianto doesn't look up. His hands are shaking. "Not now, Jack, please."

Jack crouches down in front of him, puts a hand under his chin to tilt his head up. "I understand, Ianto. Believe me. We'll talk later, when the others have gone home. But we _will_ talk about it. All right?"

Just that brief contact has Ianto almost completely unmanned, so he doesn't say anything, just nods. After a few seconds, Jack lets go, and Ianto watches him walk away, noticing the heaviness in his step, the exhaustion in the line of his shoulders.

Jack turns back for a moment, face unreadable. "Just remember, Ianto: You _saved_ them." There's something almost terrifying in the intensity of Jack's voice, something that reminds Ianto of blades and falling, of the dreams that never quite leave him, even now. Then Jack straightens, strides off, as if he could just shrug the grief and pain away.

But even Jack Harkness can't do that. It should be comforting, but it's not.

It occurs to Ianto, then, that he knows his Captain so much better now than he ever did before.

He pushes himself to his feet and goes back to his coffeepot.

When the coffee is finished brewing, he pours it out carefully, adds sugar and cream for Tosh, artificial sweetener and fat-free milk for Gwen. Owen’s goes in the “Love Doctor” mug and Jack’s in that monstrosity with two handles and dragonflies painted on it. Ianto sets everything on a tray, and does his best to hold his back straight and smile like nothing has happened as he carries it down to Jack's office. He hands the drinks around, ignoring the worry in Gwen’s eyes and the slight frown on Owen’s face. “If that’s all, sir, I thought I might get started on that expense report from our trip to... from our trip.”

“Go ahead,” Jack says, ignoring Tosh’s glare, and lets Ianto escape to his small workstation behind the tourist office.

*

He adds numbers and totals columns, and wonders how much a human life is worth, how much thirteen lives are worth, and if some actuary somewhere is trying to sort that out. Then he decides that he is not going to ruin the one thing in his life that makes sense by being hopelessly morbid, and forces himself to think of nothing but numbers. For once, it actually works, and hours pass by in a strange sort of peace. When the expense reports are done, he turns to the budget for the fourth quarter, already horribly overdue.

He works on autopilot until the doors to the Hub slide open, Tosh coming through with her coat on and her purse on her shoulder, followed by Owen and Gwen. “Jack’s sending us home early,” Tosh says. “He said for you to come find him so you could talk about... well... talk about it all.”

Ianto manages to smile at her. “Thanks, Tosh.”

Her fingers brush against the back of his hand. “Ianto...” She shakes her head, dark hair falling into her eyes. “You were really good out there,” she says. “Really, really good. Just don't forget that, all right? You did everything you could.”

Ianto lets his hand fall open around hers, her small fingers fitting neatly into the palm of his hand. He squeezes, smiles, lets go. “Thank you," he says again.

Gwen doesn't say anything, but she bends down and kisses his cheek, giving him a quick squeeze. Owen rests a hand on Ianto's shoulder, heavy and warm and reassuring, and nods at him. "See you in the morning, Ianto," he says.

"See you then." The others push their way through the beaded curtain and are gone, and Ianto stares at his computer without really seeing it, taking a few deep breaths. It’s a long time before he manages to turn the machine off and walk back down into the Hub.

Jack is in his office, frowning at a stack of papers. “They really can’t be serious about this. After everything --” Ianto clears his throat, uncomfortable, and Jack looks up, his smile twisted and bitter. “Apparently, you broke the chain of command when you led the team out of those damned mountains. Among about a dozen other things. Christ, they don't even know if they're angry at you for obeying Saxon's orders or disobeying them.”

Ianto blinks. "I suppose they're looking for some sort of scapegoat," he says. "Thirteen people died, Jack."

"And if it hadn't been for you, there would have been even more." Jack tosses his papers down on the desk, letting them scatter, and stands up, holds out his hand. "Come on. I don't want to do this here." Ianto isn't even completely sure what it is that they're doing, but he lets Jack weave their fingers together, lets himself be pulled down to Jack's quarters.

Ianto hasn't been down here since Jack left, not even to tidy, so he's a bit surprised that it smells of furniture polish and laundry soap. "I can clean up after myself, you know," Jack says, tugging him a bit closer, so their shoulders brush. He sinks onto the bed, pulling Ianto down next to him. "Talk to me, Ianto. Tell me what happened."

Ianto leans forward, frowns at the floor. "You're going to have to talk about it," Jack says, still holding onto his hand. "There's the formal debriefing; there'll probably be more meetings after that... It's better you do it here first, someplace safe."

"I just..." Ianto forces himself to meet Jack's eyes. "I guess I just don't know where to start."

Jack's thumb runs over his knuckles. "When did you first realize something was wrong?"

To even his own surprise, Ianto lets out a short, bitter laugh. "Three days after you vanished, we got a phone call from the Ministry of Defence. It bothered me, and I couldn't figure out why."

"Well, I doubt Torchwood One will have you go back that far," Jack says, but he looks troubled. "But go ahead and start there."

So Ianto does, and because this is Jack, he doesn't leave anything out; not Saxon's attempt to get him to transfer back to Torchwood One, not Steve's offers of money and advancement, not anything. It's surprisingly easy once he gets started, and Jack is a good audience, only asking questions or offering comments when Ianto is paused, fighting for words. It's not until Ianto starts describing the descent from Camp Two that his resolve breaks down utterly, and he finds himself unable to say anything.

"What is it?" Jack asks. "Ianto?"

Ianto takes a deep, shuddering breath, and then another. "I should have... Jack, they died up there! I knew it was going to go badly wrong; I knew people were going to get killed... I should have... I just let them go!"

Jack pulls Ianto close, strokes his back, buries his fingers in Ianto's hair. "It's all right. Let it out, Ianto. Just let it out."

And it’s as though he’s only been waiting for the command, because he takes one more deep breath, opens his mouth as if to speak, and then he’s sobbing into Jack’s shoulder, crying for everything he saw and everything that happened, crying for everyone he’s lost. He's still talking, a babbling, incomprehensible monologue about mountains and snow and avalanche, the sound of drums, the gloves from a dead man’s hands, Owen coughing until his ribs separated, Tosh left alone for days, Gwen looking at him like he had all the answers and he didn’t, he didn’t, he was just guessing and he should have done it differently, he should have stopped it happening, he should have saved them all...

He cries until his throat is raw and his eyes are practically swollen shut; he cries until there are no tears left and no words and he’s just shaking.

But Jack is solid, easy to lean on; Jack’s hands are warm and gentle, one resting on the small of Ianto’s back, the other on his neck, toying with Ianto’s hair. “I know,” Jack says, over and over again, as Ianto shakes in the circle of his arms. “I know.”

And Jack does know, better than anyone, because when his cheek presses against Ianto’s temple, Ianto can feel the damp trails of Jack’s tears against his skin. Because when Ianto’s tremors subside, he can feel Jack shaking.

_What did you see?_ he thinks, fuzzily, as sleep comes over him. _Who did you lose?_

Then it’s warm, and black, and he lets go.

*

Even in Jack's room, in Jack's bed, Ianto dies in his sleep and wakes up with a cry, sweating and shaking. Sometime in the night, Jack robbed him of his shoes and socks, his tie and jacket, but he's otherwise fully dressed, twisted in the covers. He stares at the ceiling, panting for breath, his ragged gasps the only sound in the room.

It's a long time before he calms down enough to lever himself into a sitting position, looking about. Jack is standing by the ladder, hands in his pockets, with that studied nonchalance he only uses when he's hiding something big, something huge and potentially explosive. His face is carefully neutral; he may as well be a wax figure.

Everything slots into place: Ianto's dreams, the way Jack clung to them on his return, the look in his eyes. Ianto's heart is pounding in his ears. "It really happened," he says, half to himself. "We really died."

A corner of Jack's mouth quirks up, his least reassuring smile. "It's only a dream, Ianto."

"If it were only a dream, you wouldn't be halfway across the room," Ianto replies, strangely calm, even though his eyes are swollen and sore, his voice rough from crying. "Tell me what happened, Jack. What _really_ happened."

Jack folds his arms. "There's nothing to tell."

"You're not half the liar you think you are, Jack Harkness." That gets a response; Jack takes a step forward, hands falling to his sides. "You said you thought you'd lost us. You were shaking... Christ, I could feel it. You saw us die, didn't you? You must have. He made you watch."

"Stop." Jack turns away, abruptly, turns back to the ladder, his posture ramrod straight. "Just... stop." One of his hands grips the iron railing, the knuckles white.

"Jack." Ianto pushes out of the bed, pads in his bare feet over to Jack. When he rests his hand on Jack's back, he can feel tense muscles. It is, of course, just as likely that Jack will hit him at this point as it is that Jack will fall into his arms and start sobbing, but he has to take the chance. "Talk to me, Jack. Tell me what happened."

Jack's head drops; he's not lashing out, which Ianto takes as a good sign. He rubs Jack's back, gently. "Forget about it, Ianto. Just... let it go and get on with living."

Ianto smiles, ruefully. "If I were going to forget it, Jack, it would have happened by now." He sighs. "The Toclafane caught up to us in Muri. I wasn't able to distract them long enough to let the others get away. We died."

"No." Jack finally turns, grabbing Ianto's arms, painfully hard. "It wasn't... You outwitted him for so long. You saw through the psychic controls. You led the team out of the mountains. He thought you'd be so easy to kill, but you weren't. You stood up to him, even to the very last. Don't think for one second that you failed, Ianto Jones. If you hadn't gotten them to safety, before..." Jack's grip loosens, one hand sliding up to cup Ianto's cheek. "Everyone who died on that mountain is still dead. If you hadn't gotten the team out of there... Nothing that the Doctor did would have saved you. You kept them alive."

"And if it hadn't been for you and the Doctor, it wouldn't have mattered." Ianto leans into Jack's touch, slides an arm around his waist. "I don't know what Saxon was planning; I wasn't around long enough to find out, but I can't imagine it was anything good."

"It was..." Jack rests his head on Ianto's shoulder. "Never mind. It didn't happen."

Ianto slides his fingers through Jack's hair. "It _did_. And you were Saxon's prisoner? Jack..."

Jack's arms tighten around him. "You were so brave, standing there, together... I held onto that. It kept me... I couldn't give up after that. He hated you for that, more than anything. I think he would have killed you again, if he could."

Ianto could only die once. But Jack could die over and over and over again... He lets Jack lean on him, strokes his fingers through Jack's hair. "I'm still here, Jack. I'm still here."

"Clever, brave, resourceful Ianto," Jack's voice is muffled in Ianto's shoulder. "I really, really thought I wouldn't... that you were..."

"I know, but I'm not." Ianto pulls back just a little bit, ducks his head down to give Jack a quick, chaste kiss. "You brought me back. I'm not sure how, but I know you had something to do with it."

They lean together, foreheads touching, for a few moments. "You've been dreaming about Muri," Jack says, finally, and Ianto suppresses a sigh. The moment is over. "Every night?"

"Every night," Ianto says.

Jack cups Ianto's face in his hands, studying him. "You weren't supposed to remember it. You shouldn't..."

"But I do, Jack." Jack frowns a little, looks about to say something, and Ianto quickly covers Jack's mouth with his hand. "And before you ask, no, I don't want retcon. I don't..." He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "It's not pretty, and it's not nice, and I don't know if I want to remember it or not, but... I _do_ remember. There has to be a reason for it." And maybe Jack is right. Maybe there is something to be proud of, despite it all. He doesn't understand it, not now, but maybe he will one day. Maybe.

When he meets Jack's eyes again, he can tell that the Captain isn't convinced. But he sighs, and lets his forehead brush against Ianto's, eyes drifting shut. "It's up to you," Jack says, finally. "Right now, you need to get some rest. Owen's threatened to hurt me if you don't."

Ianto smiles at that, just a little. "Owen?"

"And Gwen, and Tosh. And possibly Myfanwy, although I still don't understand what those cries of hers mean. But she sounded angry."

"She's still sulking over being left alone, no doubt," Ianto says, and then surprises himself by yawning. It has been a while since he's slept, really.

Jack laughs and kisses him, not chastely, but sweet all the same. "Come on," he says, letting go of Ianto and pushing away from the ladder. "Sleep."

Ianto follows obediently, strips off his shirt and trousers and folds them at the foot of the bed. Jack studies him for a long time, his fingers running over Ianto's ribs, the sharp points of his shoulderblades, the long scar down his arm. "You're so thin," Jack says.

"It'll get better," Ianto says. "Gwen's decided it's her job to feed us all up. You should see the pantry."

"I'll look tomorrow, see if there's anything I can add." Jack starts on his own clothing, and Ianto crawls under the covers to watch. There's nothing new to see, of course; no visible scars. Jack looks the same as he always has.

But he's changed. They both have.

Ianto budges over on the bed and lets Jack slide in next to him, still in his t-shirt and boxers, warm arms pulling Ianto close, Ianto’s head tucked between Jack’s chin and his shoulder, Ianto’s nose brushing Jack’s neck. It occurs to him that Jack didn't give him any of the answers he'd been looking for. He doesn't know what Saxon wanted; he doesn't know how Jack stopped him. Jack didn't even admit to being Saxon's prisoner, or to watching his team die.

Then again, those are just facts, details. They aren't answers.

There are no answers, of course. Ianto’s known that for a long time. But they’ll get up in the morning, and go to work, and one day, it’ll hurt less, because it always does.

And that’ll do to be getting on with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I believe the opening scene of the chapter, with Ianto completely overwhelmed by being back in a city after so long in the mountains, was a Seize idea, although I'm not 100% certain. I also don't know if the part with Ianto being on the phone when Jack returns is a deliberate callback to the prologue or an unconscious one, but either way I like it.


End file.
